“Yes; she described her as wearin’ a black velvet band on her hair.”
“And what did you do?” I asked anxiously.
“Why, nothing. I’ve ’eard too many o’ them kind o’ tales before.”
“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Of course all kinds of legends and rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed.”
“Of course. It’s all in people’s imagination. I suppose they’ll say next that a murder’s been committed in the place!” he laughed.
“I suppose so,” I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand, wished him good-night, and passed along.
Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had taken—for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home—I was not long before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.
I could not forget that curious statement that a girl’s face had been seen at the drawing-room window—a fair-headed girl with a band of black velvet in her hair.
Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?