"What, Joe Bates the prize-fighter?" exclaimed Nancy. "Oh, please bring him in at once. He's the very person I should like to have a talk to."
Martha Jane disappeared again into the scullery, and a moment later a burly figure in a cap and muffler followed her diffidently into the light.
Nancy welcomed him with an encouraging smile.
"We have met before, Mr. Bates," she said. "I don't suppose you remember, but it was one night in Whitcomb Street, when I was in the car with Doctor Ashton."
Joe grinned a trifle nervously. "That's right, miss," he observed. "I ain't forgot yer—not me." He pulled off his cap and scratched the back of his closely cropped head. "I got a bit o' noos for the doctor," he continued. "D'you happen to know when 'e's likely to be in, miss?"
"That's the very point we were talking about," replied Nancy. "He went out at half-past five and he left a message that he would be back by six at the latest."
Joe stared at her. "Well, that's a bit queer," he remarked. "'E ain't the sort to say a thing and then not do it."
"It's queerer than it looks," was Nancy's answer. "Six o'clock is the time at which he sees his outdoor patients. He wouldn't forget that, however busy he was."
"Did 'e tell yer where 'e was goin' to?"
"He told me," broke in Martha Jane. "Some 'ouse down at the bottom of Flood Lane."