When she entered I noticed at once a resemblance between father and daughter. She was a slatternly woman of about forty, also tall and angular, with a thin, elongated face and large hands and feet. Hyperpituitarism evidently ran in the Pyne family.
A few preliminary questions brought out the information that she was a widow, named Beedle, and had, at the death of her husband five years before, come to Professor Dillard as the result of Pyne’s recommendation.
“What time did you leave the house this morning, Beedle?” Markham asked her.
“Right after half past ten.” She seemed uneasy and on the alert, and her voice was defensively belligerent.
“And what time did you return?”
“About half past twelve. That man let me in”—she looked viciously at Heath—“and treated me like I’d been a criminal.”
Heath grinned. “The time’s O. K., Mr. Markham. She got sore because I wouldn’t let her go down-stairs.”
Markham nodded non-committally.
“Do you know anything of what took place here this morning?” he went on, studying the woman closely.
“How should I know? I was at Jefferson market.”