“Where were the photographs done—in London, you say?”
“Aye.”
“Do you know by what photographer?”
“I don't! An' I don't care! Piccadilly they had on 'em, which was good enough for me.”
“Have you her picture?”
“No!”
“Did she receive a letter on the day of her disappearance?”
“Maybe.”
“Good day!” said Harley. “And let me add that the atmosphere of her home was hardly conducive to ideal conduct!”
Leaving Bramber to digest this rebuke, we came out of the cottage. Dusk was falling now, and by the time that we regained the Manor the place was lighted up. Inspector Wessex was waiting for us in the library, and: