As it was close by, French walked to the place. Here again his luck held in a way that he began to consider almost uncanny. A tall, coarsely good-looking blonde opened the door and announced in answer to his inquiry that she herself was Miss Scott. Soon he was sitting opposite to her in a tiny parlour, while she stared at him with something approaching insolence out of her rather bold eyes.
French, sizing her up rapidly, was courteous but firm. He began by ostentatiously laying his notebook on the table, opening it at a fresh page, and after saying, “Miss Susan Scott, isn’t it?” wrote the name at the head of the sheet.
“Now, Miss Scott,” he announced briskly, “I am Inspector French from Scotland Yard, and I am investigating a case of murder and robbery.” He paused, and seeing the girl was duly impressed, continued, “It happens that your recent mistress, Mrs. Vane, is wanted to give evidence in the case, and I have come to you for some information about where to find her.”
The girl made an exclamation of surprise, and a look, partly of fear and partly of thrilled delight, appeared in her blue eyes.
“I don’t know anything about her,” she declared.
“I’m sure you know quite a lot,” French returned. “All I want is to ask you some questions. If you answer them truly, you have nothing to fear, but, as you probably know, there are very serious penalties indeed for keeping back evidence. You could be sent to prison for that.”
Having by these remarks banished the girl’s look of insolence and reduced her to a suitable frame of mind, French got on to business.
“Am I right in believing that you have been until last Friday house and parlourmaid to Mrs. Vane, of Crewe Lodge, St. John’s Wood Road?”
“Yes, I was there for about three months.”
French, to assist not only his own memory but the impressiveness of the interview, noted the reply in his book.
“Three months,” he repeated deliberately. “Very good. Now, why did you leave?”
“Because I had to,” the girl said sulkily. “Mrs. Vane was closing the house.”
French nodded.
“So I understood. Tell me what happened, please; just in your own words.”
“She came in that afternoon shortly before four, all fussed like and hurrying, and said she was leaving immediately for New York. She said she had just had a cable that Mr. Vane had had an accident there, and they were afraid he wouldn’t get over it. She said for cook to get her some tea while I helped her pack. She just threw her clothes in her suitcases. My word, if I had done packing like that I shouldn’t half have copped it! By the time she’d finished, cook had tea ready, and while mistress was having it, cook and I packed. I started to clear away the tea things, but mistress said there wasn’t time for that, for me just to leave them and run out and get two taxis. She said there was a special for the American boat that she must catch. So I got the taxis, and she got into one and cook and I into the other, and we drove away together, and that’s all I know about it.”
“What time was that?”
“About half-past four, I should think. I didn’t look.”
“Where did you get the taxis?”
“On the stand at the end of Gardiner Street.”
“Who gave Mrs. Vane’s taxi man his address?”
“I did. It was Euston.”
“It was rather hard lines on you and the cook, turning you out like that at a moment’s notice. I hope she made it up to you?”
Miss Scott smiled scornfully.
“That was all right,” she answered. “We told her about it, and she gave us a fiver apiece, as well as our month’s wages.”
“Not so bad,” French admitted. “Who locked up the house?”
“She did, and took the key.”
“And what happened to you and cook?”
“We drove on here and I got out. This is my sister’s house, you understand. Cook went on to Paddington. She lives in Reading or somewhere down that way. Mrs. Vane said that when she came back she would look us up, and if we were disengaged we could come back to her. But she said not to keep out of a place for her, as she didn’t know how long she might have to stay in America.”
French paused in thought, then went on:
“Was Mrs. Vane much from home while you were with her?”
“No, she was only away once. But she stayed over three weeks that time. It’s a bit strange that it was an accident, too. Her sister in Scotland fell and broke her collar bone, so she told us, and she had to go to keep house till she was better. Somewhere in Scotland, she said.”
“When was that?”
The girl hesitated.
“I don’t know that I could say exactly,” she answered at last. “She’s back about six weeks or two months, and she left over three weeks before that, about a couple of weeks after I went. Say about ten weeks altogether.”
This was distinctly satisfactory. Mrs. Vane’s absence seemed to cover the period of Mrs. X’s visit to America.
“I should like to fix the exact dates if I could,” French persisted, “or at least the date she came back. Just think, will you, please. Is there nothing you can remember by?”
The girl presumably thought, for she was silent for some moments, but her cogitations were unproductive. She shook her head.
“Did you stay in the house while she was away?”
“No. I came here and cook went home.”
This was better. The attention of a number of people had been drawn to the date, and some one of them should surely be able to fix it.
“On what day of the week did you go back?” French prompted.
The girl considered this.
“It was a Thursday,” she
