Like her drawing-room, Mrs. Eales probably looked best by artificial light. Daylight, one felt, would have been too unkind to the lines of anxiety and nervousness about the corners of her eyes and mouth, revealed too clearly that her slender neck and throat were already just a touch too stringy. But seen as Mallett saw her at this moment, she was undeniably a handsome woman. She was dressed in unrelieved black, which set off her fair skin admirably. Her make-up was sufficiently careful to excuse the length of time for which she had kept the inspector waiting. He speculated on what her age might be, but soon abandoned the attempt and found himself watching instead the fascinating play of her expressive brown eyes and thin white hands, neither of which seemed able to be at rest for an instant.

“Will you smoke?” said Mrs. Eales, opening a box of gold-tipped cigarettes. “Oh, but you prefer your own, I expect. Men always do, don’t they? I’ll have one if you don’t mind. Now then, Mr. Mallett, you want to hear all about poor Pompey, I suppose. Of course, this has all been the most frightful shock to me, and I can tell you here and now that I have absolutely no idea how it can have happened. It’s—it’s been pretty hard, coming just now, you know,” she added, and for the first time through the hard brightness of her voice crept a note of sincerity.

“I may take it that Mr. Ballantine’s death has affected you rather badly, financially,” said Mallett.

She nodded. “The rent of this flat is paid for up to the end of the year,” she said, “and after that—well, it’s going to be pretty difficult, that’s all. Pompey always said he’d put me down for something handsome in his will, but I don’t suppose there’s anything to leave to anyone now, is there? Still . . . I’m afraid this isn’t much use to you, is it, Mr. Mallett?”

“In cases of this kind,” answered the inspector gravely, “it is always important to know who stands to profit by the murder. What you tell me is of importance from the point of view of—elimination, shall we say?”

“Meaning that I——? Yes, I suppose I might have guessed that when a man is murdered, his mistress naturally comes under suspicion”—she pronounced the ugly word in a defiant tone—“but in this case, if ever a woman stood to lose by it, I did.”

There was a pause, and then Mallett said: “Suppose you were to tell me everything there is to tell about yourself and Mr. Ballantine?”