"No, I don't. I told you so before; but I feel sure she is a good woman. I can give you no reason, but I myself am satisfied without one. As to your evidence, Harry, you know the most innocent person can be wrongly accused, can be even hanged on evidence which, false as it is, appears sufficient. There is the Lesurques case, for--"
"Oh! the Courier of Lyons. I know. And I can quote you at least a dozen others. All the same, I don't believe in Mrs. Moxton."
"Well, I do. For all you know she may be protecting her sister."
Cass stopped short. "Has she a sister?" he asked.
"I believe so. At least, in the books I told you about, Thomas Gordon had written the names of his daughters Laura and Janet Gordon. The first is, of course, Mrs. Moxton, the second name must be that of her sister."
"Perhaps. But the sister may be dead, may be absent from England. In any event, I do not see how you can connect her at all with the murder."
The doctor had no reply to this pertinent observation, as, after all, his remark about the sister had been made vaguely and without any ulterior meaning. A turn of the street brought them to the cab-stand at which Cass, as a journalist, was well known. He immediately began to question the men in a chaffing, popular way. They were ready enough to answer his questions, the more so as these were concerning the murder; but one and all declared that no particular man had hired a cab between eleven and twelve on the night of August 16th.
"Old Ike is the one to know, though," said a red-faced cabman. "He 'ave a memory like 'is own 'orse."
There was a murmur of assent at this, and old Ike, shaky, lean, ancient, more like a grey wolf than a man, was routed out of the shelter in which he was refreshing himself with tea.
"A fare on that murder night, sir? Lor', I don't quite know wot t' say 'bout that. 'Leven an' twelve was it? Well, now, sir, the chapsies at that time were at the station waiting the thayater trains. Weren't you, chapsies?"
"Ah! that we were, but you worn't, Ike," said the red-faced cabman, replying for the others. "You never does go fur them late fares."
"I wos alone on the rank, Mr. Cass, now I thinks of it, and I 'ad a fare to Pimlico, to Geneva Square, where that Silent 'Ouse murder took place."