“Quite so. Ever see that ‘father,’ Mr. Beachman?”
“Yes, sir, once; the day before he sailed—or was supposed to have sailed—for the States.”
“Short, thick-set man was he? Carried one shoulder a little lower than the other, and had lost the top of a finger on the left hand?”
“Yes, sir; the little finger. That’s him to a T.”
“Boris Borovonski!” declared Cleek, glancing over at Sir Charles. “No going to the States for that gentleman with a ‘deal’ like this on hand. He’d be close by and in constant touch with her. Did she have any friends in the town, Mr. Beachman?”
“No, not one. She appeared to be of a very retiring disposition, and made no acquaintances whatsoever. The only outside person I ever knew her to take any interest in was a crippled girl who lived with her bedridden mother and took in needlework. Greta heard of the case, and went to visit them. Afterward she used to carry work to them frequently, and sometimes fruit and flowers.”
“Ever see that bedridden woman or that cripple girl?”
“No, sir, never. Harry and I would be busy here most of the days, so she always went alone.”
“Did she ever ask Mrs. Beachman to accompany her?”
“Not that I ever heard of, sir. But it would have been to no purpose if she had. The wife is a very delicate woman; she rarely ever goes anywhere.”