“Suppose we take a look at the other room,” and he led the way toward the inner door.
It was an ordinary bedroom of moderate size and with a single closet, in which a few soiled clothes were hanging. The bed had been lain upon, and evidently by a person fully dressed, for there were marks of muddy shoes upon the counterpane, fresh marks as of one who had come in during the evening’s storm. An empty whiskey bottle lay on a little table near the bed.
“I guess Thompson was a boozer,” observed Simmonds.
“Yes,” agreed Godfrey, “his face showed that pretty plainly.”
“Well, the man we’re after ain’t in here; we’ll have to search the house.”
“Can’t we let Miss Croydon go home? She won’t run away—I’ll answer for that. Besides, there’s nothing against her.”
Simmonds pondered a minute.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said, at last. “Of course, she’ll have to appear at the inquest. Do you know her address?”
“Yes—twenty-one East Sixty-ninth Street.”
Simmonds jotted it down in his note-book.
“All right,” he said. “You’d better take her down to her cab.”
