"You put down a fare
at Palace Mansions at twelve o'clock last night?"
For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in
him, or the evil--a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution
pending--respect for the law, or fear of its might--decided his course.
"I did."
"It was a man?"
Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his
opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar's eyes upon his face, he
chose not to lie.
"It was a woman."
"How was she dressed?"
"In a fur motor-coat--civet fur."
The man of culture spoke in those two words, "civet fur"; and Dunbar
nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the evidence.
"Was she alone?"
"She was."
"What fare did she pay you?"
"The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-crown."
"Did she appear to be ill?"
"Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening dress.
She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to get into
the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind her all the
time."
Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.
"She told you to wait!" he asserted, positively. Brian looked to right
and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, and
taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck.
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