It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. “But your sister,” he said. You did not see me, I know. ’ ‘Because you are a pig!’ retorted Melusine hotly. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. “Have you anything to ask the witness?” asked the helpful inspector.
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