Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly but unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware of his responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter.
“You don’t tell me, sir!” he gasped. “Well, the idee! The pore lady’s letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps you don’t know, sir, that she stayed here!”
“Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any chance, been given her room?”
“No, sir. Not likely. It’s locked, and the police have the key till the inquest is done with.”
“As for the name,” explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, “that was a mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous actress, and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical profession shall be known to the public as ‘Miss’ rather than ‘Mrs.’”
“Well, there!” wheezed Tomlin. “Who’d ever ha’ thought it?”
The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact, stunned by these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge.
“It’s a sad errand you’re on, sir,” he said. “Death comes to all of us, man an’ beast alike, but it’s a terrible thing when a lady like Miss— Mrs. ——”
“Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the press as Miss Melhuish.”
“When a lady like Miss Melhuish is knocked on the ’ead like a—”