"I summoned him forth from that place of sin, yes, and his wife also -'
"What?" exclaimed the Sergeant. "Here, where was the poor fellow?"
"In a playhouse, which is an habitation of the devil."
"Do you mean to tell me all this song and dance is because the postman took his wife to the pictures in his off time?" gasped the Sergeant. "It's my belief you're crazy! Now, cut it out, and let's get down to brass tacks!
Did he see Mrs. North on the night of the murder, or did he not?"
"I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart," apologised Glass, with a groan. "But I will make my report." He produced a notebook, and with a bewilderingly sudden change from zeal to officialdom, read in a toneless voice: "On the night of 17 June, having cleared the box at the corner of Glynne Road at 10.00 p.m. precisely, the postman, by name Horace Smart, of 14 Astley Villas, Marley, mounted his bicycle, and proceeded in an easterly direction, passing the gates of Greystones. Smart states he saw a woman walking down the drive."
"Did he notice whether she was carrying anything?"
"He states that she carried nothing, that when he saw her she had one hand raised to hold her hair against the breeze. With the other she held up the skirts of her dress."
"Did he recognise -'The Sergeant broke off to answer the telephone, which at that moment interrupted him. "Scotland Yard? Right! Put 'em through Hullo? Hemingway speaking."
"We've got Carpenter for you," announced a voice at the other end of the line.