mystery with her, made a movement of head and hands that seemed to indicate assent and dissent at the same time.
"Well, I do, and I don't," she answered. "That is to say, I've known him, very slightly, by correspondence, for the last year or two, but personally, not at all. He has occasionally sent me work to do for him, by post. I never saw him, however, until this evening—and I wish I hadn't seen him! This thing to happen here———"
"Just so, ma'am!" agreed Wedgwood. "Very unpleasant! Then you know the man's name, Miss Tandy? And his address?"
"Mr. John Wraypoole, 89 Porteous Road, Paddington," replied Miss Tandy, with business-like promptitude. "That's where I sent his finished work to, anyway. But sometimes he wrote his letters from the British Museum."
"What was he, ma'am? Do you know that?"
"I should say he was a professional searcher—pedigrees—family history—genealogical stuff—all that sort of thing," said Miss Tandy. "That was the kind of work I typed for him."
"Well, and how came he here to-night, Miss Tandy?" asked Wedgwood. "And—what time did he come?"
"He came here a little before seven o'clock,"
