Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield’s mind responded to this sentence.  He pondered over it for a moment, and then remembered that Hill had applied the same phrase to his wife.  Evidently there had been collusion, a comparing of tales beforehand.  The woman had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband, but undoubtedly her tale was false.

“The whole truth?” said the inspector, again.

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Hill.

“Now, look here,” said the police officer, in his sternest tones, as he shook a warning finger at the little woman, “I know you are lying.  I know Hill didn’t sleep in the house, that night.  He was seen near Riversbrook in the early part of the night and he was seen wandering about Covent Garden after the murder had been committed.  It is no use lying to me, Mrs. Hill.  If you want to save your husband from being arrested for this murder you’ll tell the truth.  What time did he leave here that night?”

“I’ve already told you the truth, sir,” replied the little woman.  “He didn’t leave the place after he came back from the Zoo.”

Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled.  It seemed to him that Mrs. Hill was a woman of weak character, and yet she stuck firmly to her story.  Perhaps Evans had made a mistake in identifying Hill as the man who had been carried into his bar after being knocked down.  Nothing was more common than mistakes of identification.  His glance wandered round the room, as though in search of some inspiration for his next question.  His eye took mechanical note of the trumpery articles of rickety furniture; wandered over the cheap almanac prints which adorned the walls; but became riveted in the cheap overmantel which surmounted the fire-place.  For, in the slip of mirror which formed the centre of that ornament, Inspector Chippenfield caught sight of the features of Mrs. Hill frowning and shaking her head at somebody invisible.  He turned his head warily, but she was too quick for him, and her features were impassive again when he looked at her.  Following the direction indicated by the mirror, Inspector Chippenfield saw Mrs. Hill had been signalling through a window which looked into the back yard.  He reached it in a step and threw open the window.  A small and not over-clean little girl was just leaving the yard by the gate.

Inspector Chippenfield called to her pleasantly, and she retraced her steps with a frightened face.

“Come in, my dear, I want you,” said the inspector, wreathing his red face into a smile.  “I’m fond of little girls.”

The little girl smiled, nodded her head, and presently appeared in response to the inspector’s invitation.  He glanced at Mrs. Hill, noticed that her face was grey and drawn with sudden terror.  She opened her mouth as though to speak, but no words came.

The inspector lifted the child on to his knee.  She nestled to him confidingly enough, and looked up into his face with an artless glance.