"Address?"
"You will find the house in the road which runs parallel to Maple Grove. It is called the Chestnuts."
Hannasyde jotted it down. The Sergeant, meanwhile, was turning over a collection of photographs and snapshots laid on the desk. "Looks like you weren't so far out, Glass," he remarked. "I have to hand it to the late Ernest. He certainly knew how to pick 'em. Regular harem!" He picked up a large portrait of a dazzling blonde, dressed, apparently, in an ostrich-feather fan, and regarded it admiringly. That's Lily Logan, the dancer. What a figure!"
Glass averted his eyes with a shudder. "Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion!"
"That's what you think," said Hemingway, laying Lily Logan down, and looking critically at another smiling beauty. "Went the pace a bit, didn't he? Hullo!" His eyes had alighted on the portrait of a curly-headed brunette. He picked it up. "Seems to me I've seen this dame before."
"As his female acquaintance seems to have consisted largely of chorus girls, that's not surprising," said Hannasyde dryly.
"Yours lovingly, Angela," read out the Sergeant. "Angela…' He scratched his chin meditatively. "Got something at the back of my mind. Do you seem to know that face, Chief?"
Hannasyde studied the photograph for a moment. "It does look a little familiar," he admitted. "Some actress, I daresay. We'll check up on them presently."
Hemingway held the photograph at arm's length. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't connect her with the stage. No use asking you, Glass, I suppose?"
"I do not wish to look upon the face of a lewd woman," Glass said harshly. "Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."