time reading any more of that rot; it sounds like a French novel. The coroner can wrestle with it, if he thinks it’s worth while.”
He replaced the clippings in the purse, which he slipped back into the pocket from which he had taken it.
“Now,” he added, rising to his feet, “we’d better get the girl’s story.”
“Do you know who she is?” asked Godfrey, in a low voice. As he glanced at her, he was startled to note her attitude of strained attention, which, as he turned, lapsed instantly to one of seeming apathy.
“I heard you call her Miss Croydon.”
“Yes—she’s the sister of Mrs. Richard Delroy.”
Again Simmonds whistled.
“The deuce you say! Dickie Delroy! Well, that doesn’t make any difference,” and he turned toward her resolutely.
“Miss Croydon,” he began abruptly, though perhaps in a gentler voice than he would have used toward thy average suspect, “were you in the room when this man was killed?”
“Yes sir.”
“You know him?”
“Only slightly,” she answered coolly, disregarding Godfrey’s stare of amazement. “His name, I think, was Mr. Thompson.”
“You had an engagement with him here?”
“Yes, sir; on a private matter which cannot concern the police.”
Simmonds passed that over for the moment.
