“That doesn't prove that he wasn't going to,” retorted Giles.
“You're probably right,” said Hannasyde placidly.
But on the following morning, when he got into Giles' car, he said: “My straws are beginning to make a rope, Mr Carrington. She wasn't a typist in search of a job.”
“What?” said Giles. “Oh, Gladys Smith! So you did go and see her! What was she like?”
Hannasyde struck a match, and began to light his pipe. “She's a pretty little woman. Not very young, and distinctly common. What you might describe as a comfortable creature. Nice eyes, and a motherly smile.” He paused, and added between puffs. “She'd never heard of Gregory Matthews.”
Giles burst out laughing. “Oh, that's even better than I expected! My poor Hannasyde, what a blow for you!”
“I didn't take it like that,” said Hannasyde, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with one square thumb. “I thought it the most interesting circumstance that has yet come to light. You're not doing yourself justice, Mr Carrington. Don't you think it's a trifle odd that she should never have heard of a man who has her name and address written down in his diary?”
“Perhaps she knows him under an assumed name,” suggested Giles lightly. “Strong aroma of intrigue about this. Was there a liaison?”
“Oh no, she didn't even recognise his photograph,” said Hannasyde. “No doubt about that.”
“I admit it does seem a trifle queer,” said Giles. “Not altogether helpful, though. Where does the rope you mentioned come in?”