“Go in. This is right.”
“To the last day of my life, I’ll never forget your goodness,” I murmured.
He nodded and disappeared round a corner.
Room 13 was an agreeable surprise after my dreary journey. Here was comfort; here a fire; here the carpet was swept and fairly new, and the tables were dusted. Over six foot of man rose from behind one of the tables.
“So you’ve had trouble getting in?” He was polite. “Come over near the fire.” He indicated an armchair, and his manner was helpful. “Now what can I do for you?”
“It’s about my husband,” I began. The fire gave me confidence. Ammunition seemed a milder charge in here. I poured forth my woes. He made no comment until I finished. “Well?” I ended.
“Of course, he is a perfectly innocent man?”
“But he really is. Would you expect my husband to know what was under another woman’s bed?”
“I’d make it my business to know in these times,” he declared. “Your house hasn’t much of a name. Figgis was probably up to no good there. Fitzgerald was arrested there. And now this charge of ammunition. Why should I believe your husband? Of course, I’m not suggesting that he isn’t innocent. But, good God, if you’d heard that story as often as I have! Do you know that Figgis was seen going into that house only two days ago?”
I shook my head.