“Is Parham young or old?”
“Not very old—fat, fairish, rather bald, with a round face and a long nose. Mrs Parham is quite young, about twenty-six, and people call her good-lookin’, but myself I’m no judge o’ women. I’ve my missus, and she’s the best-lookin’ of ’em all in my eyes. Of course, Mrs Parham dresses smartly, and drives in a fine carriage. She comes to the Saturday concerts sometimes.”
“You don’t like Parham,” I said. “Come, tell the truth.”
“No, I don’t,” he declared, after a slight hesitation. “He’s a wrong ’un—I know that. Only, of course, that’s strictly between you and me,” he added in confidence.
“I’d like to know your sister,” I said, quite frankly. “I’ll make it worth her while if she’ll ask me in and let me see the house. She might do it when her mistress is out.”
He shook his head dubiously.
“I don’t think she’d let a stranger see inside, sir.”
“Well, there’s no harm in trying. Will you take me and introduce me?” I asked. “Take me this evening. When do you go off duty?”
“In about half an hour.”
“Then we’ll walk down there and call,” I suggested. “Here’s my card,” and I handed him the card of a barrister friend of mine which bore an address in the Temple.