incredulously. "What can I tell you? I've never been in London in my life!"
"Never mind London!" said Wedgwood with a smile. "We may have to take in China or Peru or both before we've done! However, you know that the name of the murdered man is John Wraypoole. Now, did you ever know him?"
"No, sir!" replied Mrs. Chipchase. "That I'm sure of!"
"All the same," continued Wedgwood, "Wraypoole has been in your shop, and in this room not so long ago! Now listen—and bear in mind, Mrs. Chipchase, that all this is strictly private and confidential between you and me. Do you know a woman named Janet Clagne?"
"Mrs. Clagne of Mortover Grange?" replied the confectioner. "Why, of course! Everybody knows Mrs. Clagne round here!"
"Very well—now we can sail ahead! Do you remember Mrs. Clagne coming in here one market-day afternoon, quite recently, with a gentleman?"
"Yes, certainly I do. About ten days or a fortnight ago. Oh, yes, I remember that well enough. I'd noticed them talking together outside my window, for some little time before they came in. It began to rain so they turned
