The cabby considered once more.
"There's lots of things that a guy like me sees that look off color," he said, at length; "but we can't always pass any remarks about them. It would be bad for business, you see. But this murder thing's a different proposition, and here's where I tell it all. Last night while I was waiting in front of McCausland's, I hears an automobile turn into the street. It was some time after I got there. I wouldn't have paid much attention to it, but you see there's a fellow been trying to get my work with a taxicab, and I thought it was him."
"And it wasn't?"
"No, it was a private car—a Maillard, and there was a woman driving it."
The chair upon which Pendleton sat was an infirm one; it creaked sharply as he made a sudden movement.
"She was going at a low speed," proceeded Sams, "and as she passed Hume's I noticed her look up at the windows. After she disappeared there wasn't a sound for a while. You see, nobody hardly ever passes through Christie Place after one o'clock. Then I hears her coming back. This time she stopped the car, got out and went to the door that leads into Hume's place. There she stopped a little, as though she didn't know whether to go in or not. But at last she went in."
Pendleton coughed huskily at this point; and his friend glancing at him saw that his face was white.
"And up to that time," said Ashton-Kirk, "are you sure that there was no movement—no sound—in the front room at Hume's?"
"As far as I noticed, there wasn't. But a few minutes after I heard the woman go in, I did hear some sounds."
The man stroked his shaven jaws in the deliberate manner of a person about to precipitate a crisis. Pendleton leaned toward him, anxiously.