“You never by any chance saw a lady going up to his rooms, or on the staircase as if she might be going up there? A red-haired woman,—or fair-haired, anyhow—well-dressed?”
“Never!” I said emphatically, and with truth. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there was a red-haired woman in his flat last night. That’s all. Good day, Mr. Wynn.”
CHAPTER VIII
A TIMELY WARNING
It was rather late that evening when I returned to the Cayleys; for I had to go to the office, and write my report of the murder. It would be a scoop for the “Courier;” for, though the other papers might get hold of the bare facts, the details of the thrilling story I constructed were naturally exclusive. I made it pretty lurid, and put in all I had told Freeman, and that I intended to repeat at the inquest.
The news editor was exultant. He regarded a Sunday murder as nothing short of a godsend to enliven the almost inevitable dulness of the Monday morning’s issue at this time of year.
“Lucky you weren’t out of town, Wynn, or we should have missed this, and had to run in with the rest,” he remarked with a chuckle.