"I have come
for a brief word with you--then I shall go."
I could think of nothing to say. I stood gaping like a schoolboy.
"My word," the woman went on, "is in the nature of advice. We do
not always like those who give us advice. None the less, I trust
that you will listen."
I found my tongue then.
"I am listening," I said stupidly. "But first--a light--" And I
moved toward the matches on the mantelpiece.
Quickly the woman rose and faced me. I saw then that she wore a
veil--not a heavy veil, but a fluffy, attractive thing that was
yet sufficient to screen her features from me.
"I beg of you," she cried, "no light!" And as I paused, undecided,
she added, in a tone which suggested lips that pout: "It is such a
little thing to ask--surely you will not refuse."
I suppose I should have insisted. But her voice was charming, her
manner perfect, and that odor of lilacs reminiscent of a garden I
knew long ago, at home.
"Very well," said I.
"Oh--I am grateful to you," she answered. Her tone changed. "I
understand that, shortly after seven o'clock last Thursday evening,
you heard in the room above you the sounds of a struggle. Such
has been your testimony to the police?"
"It has," said I.
"Are you quite certain as to the hour?" I felt that she was smiling
at me.
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