Sproot contracted his brows and appeared to be recalling the scene. Finally he spoke, and there was no doubt in his voice.
“The window was open, sir. I recall it now quite distinctly. After Mr. Chester and I had lifted Miss Ada to the bed, I closed it at once for fear she would catch cold.”
“How far open was the window?” asked Vance with eager impatience.
“Eight or nine inches, sir, I should say. Perhaps a foot.”
“Thank you, Sproot. That will be all. Now please tell the cook I want to see her.”
Mrs. Mannheim came in a few minutes later, and Vance indicated a chair near the desk-light. When the woman had seated herself he stood before her and fixed her with a stern, implacable gaze.
“Frau Mannheim, the time for truth-telling has come. I am here to ask you a few questions, and unless I receive a straight answer to them I shall report you to the police. You will, I assure you, receive no consideration at their hands.”
The woman tightened her lips stubbornly and shifted her eyes, unable to meet Vance’s penetrating stare.
“You told me once that your husband died in New Orleans thirteen years ago. Is that correct?”
Vance’s question seemed to relieve her mind, and she answered readily.