“That’s right,” Mason said. “The company specializes in the sale of crooked crap dice — like this pair — and includes, as a ‘premium,’ a lottery ticket. The company was originally operated by L. C. Conway. Then, a few days ago, it was apparently sold to a man named Serle — Guy T. Serle, who has moved the business to 209 East Ranchester Avenue. Does any of that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Mason said, “Look here, Miss Milicant, I’m going to be frank with you. Here’s a description of L. C. Conway — approximately fifty-five, five feet ten inches, weight around one hundred and eighty, heavy features, partially bald with black hair coming to a peak near the center of his head. Has a slight limp. Does that description mean anything to you?”
She met his eyes. “Is it supposed to?”
“I thought it might.”
“The description,” she said abruptly, “fits my brother,” and Mason noticed that her hands were gripping the arms of the chair.
Mason said, “So it does,” as though the idea had just occurred to him. “Are you trying to suggest to me that your brother and L. C. Conway are one and the same?”
She said, “I thought you were the one who was trying to suggest that to me.”
Mason said, “I think you’d better check up on your brother and the possibility that he is the L. C. Conway who got that twenty thousand dollar check from Alden Leeds.”
Her face was white enough so that the patches of orange rouge ceased to blend with her natural color. “He couldn’t have done that,” she said slowly, “simply couldn’t — not after all I’ve done for him. It would be a terrible, a wicked thing to do.”