“Yes. She was wearing a dark blue dress, with a jacket to match, and a small dark blue hat. She was with an elderly lady, and was evidently waiting for a train. She gave me the impression that she was starting on a journey.”
“How old was her companion?”
“Oh, she was about forty, I should think—neatly dressed in black.”
“It couldn’t have been she,” I said reflectively.
“My dear Owen, Mrs. Biddulph’s beauty is too marked for one to be mistaken—especially a friend, like myself.”
“Then you are quite certain it was she—eh, Jack?”
My tall friend stretched his long legs out on the carpet, and replied—
“Well, I’d have bet a hundred to a penny that it was she. She wasn’t at home with you on that day, was she?”
I was compelled to make a negative reply.