"Halloa!" said the other.
"You say you're Bill Simpson," said Mr. Cooper, holding up a forefinger at Mrs. Simpson, who was about to interrupt. "If you are, tell us something you know that only you could know; something we know, so as to identify you. Things about your past."
A strange noise sounded behind the door.
"Sounds as though he is smacking his lips," said Mrs. Cooper to her sister-in-law, who was eyeing Mr. Cooper restlessly.
"Very good," said Mr. Simpson; "I agree. Who is there?"
"Me and my wife and Mrs. Simpson," said Mr. Cooper.
"He is smacking his lips," whispered Mrs. Cooper. "Having a go at the beer, perhaps."
"Let's go back fifteen years," said Mr. Simpson in meditative tones. "Do you remember that girl with copper-coloured hair that used to live in John Street?"
"No!" said Mr. Cooper, loudly and suddenly.
"Do you remember coming to me one day—two days after Valentine Day, it was—white as chalk and shaking like a leaf, and—"