in here. A tallish, quiet-looking, grey-haired man he was."
"Exactly, ma'am. Very well—that was John Wraypoole about whose murder you've read!"
Mrs. Chipchase gasped.
"You don't say!" she exclaimed. "And such a nice, polite man! Well, I never! And I suppose Mrs. Clagne knows all about it, mister?"
It was on the tip of the detective's tongue to answer that he'd give a good deal to know positively what Mrs. Clagne did know about it. But he shook his head.
"I haven't spoken to Mrs. Clagne in reference to the matter," he replied. "And I don't want you to say anything to Mrs. Clagne, or to tell anyone that I've mentioned it to you. What I want you to tell me is just this—those two came in here didn't they? Very well—how long did they stop?"
"The better part of an hour, mister. They had tea—and muffins—at that table in the corner there. I served it to them myself. I came in once again a bit later to bring hot water, and I noticed they seemed to be in very particular talk."
"You didn't overhear anything that was said?"
