“Are you a relative of Mr. Anderson’s?” The woman was back with a pair of plain glasses perched on her nose. Peggy saw that she was wearing soft bedroom slippers which accounted for her silent tread.
“Not exactly,” Peggy admitted. She wondered how to explain her interest. The real story would be too complicated to tell. “I’m just a friend. Actually,” she added hastily, “a friend of a friend. You see,” she said with sudden inspiration, “Mr. Agate—the man I’m looking for—has had a stroke of good fortune, and I’ve been assigned the job of finding him.”
The woman stared at Peggy with new respect. “I see,” she said solemnly. “Then you’re a private investigator?”
“Well, sort of,” Peggy answered.
The woman leaned forward. “Did he fall into an inheritance?” she asked in a hushed voice.
Peggy gulped and spoke in an equally quiet voice. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it,” she whispered.
The woman nodded conspiratorially. “I quite understand, my dear. Forgive me for asking.”
Peggy reassured her with a smile and held out the photograph. The woman studied it for a moment and slowly began to nod her head. “That’s the man,” she said at last. “That’s Mr. Anderson. I always said he was a real gentleman. Even though he did play the banjo.” She said the last with just a trace of exasperation as though playing the banjo was far too frivolous an occupation for a reliable person.
“Yes,” Peggy said excitedly. “That would be Mr. Agate.”
The woman shook her head sadly. “I wonder why he changed his name?” Her expression hardened into a severe frown of disapproval. “It doesn’t sound like the proper thing to do. I mean, it sounds as if he wanted to hide something. I never would have let him stay here if I’d known about that.”