"Oh, hardly." Whitaker's thin brown hand gesticulated vaguely. "She was tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age...."
"Blonde or brune?"
"I swear I don't know. She wore one of those funny knitted caps, tight down over her hair, all the time."
Drummond laughed quietly. "Rather an inconclusive description, especially if you advertise. 'Wanted: the wife I married six years ago and haven't seen since; tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age; wore one of those funny knit—'"
"I don't feel in a joking humour," Whitaker interrupted roughly. "It's a serious matter and wants serious treatment.... What else have we got to mull over?"
Drummond shrugged suavely. "There's enough to keep us busy for several hours," he said. "For instance, there's my stewardship."
"Your which?"
"My care of your property. You left a good deal of money and securities lying round loose, you know; naturally I felt obliged to look after 'em. There was no telling when Widow Whitaker might walk in and demand an accounting. I presume we might as well run over the account—though it is getting late."
"Half-past four," Whitaker informed him, consulting his watch. "Take too long for to-day. Some other time."
"To-morrow suit you?"