“He is of similar build and height, and his clothes the same as the man I saw leave Mr. Palmer’s apartment,” he said. “But I cannot swear to his identity.”
“You cannot!” Maynard stared aghast at him.
“No.” La Montagne looked hard at Sam, who gazed back at him unmoved. “No, I did not see the taxi-driver’s face.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE BLOTTED PAGE
MARIAN Van Ness turned the latch-key and stepped into her apartment with reluctance. After her visit to the hairdresser she had persuaded Evelyn, against the latter’s better judgment, to take a light dinner down town with her and had prolonged the walk home because of her desire for companionship. It was Mammy’s “church night,” and Marian dreaded the long evening by herself before the return of the faithful old servant who had been her mother’s personal maid years before. Mammy was a privileged character, and her shrewd comments and homely maxims frequently wiled away the tedium of evenings at home.
When Marian felt the strain of over-work and long hours at the State Department Mammy, on her return, would put her to bed and nurse her as she had done in infancy. Her large black hand possessed a magic touch healing, in its soothing influence, every tortured nerve and bringing sleep in its train. She would have made her fortune as a masseuse, but loyalty to her “chile” kept her in devoted attendance, sharing Marian’s varying vicissitudes with fortifying courage.
Marian’s light footfall made no sound as she crossed the tiny dining room on her way to the kitchenette opening from it. A peep inside disclosed Mammy dozing in a comfortable arm wicker chair. Marian’s surprised ejaculation awoke her.
“Laws! Honey,” she ejaculated, straightening her white turban. “Yo’ am late to-night; jes’ take yo’ tings off an’ Mammy’ll hab supper in a jiffy.”
“Don’t trouble, Mammy, I had my dinner down town.” Marian looked up at the kitchen clock. “You are late, dear; hurry and get your things on.”
“I isn’t goin’ to church dis evenin’, Honey.”