“Just relax, Miss Isaacs, and permit your mind to run freely,” he said smilingly. “I’ve read all about you and what you said to Sergeant Crome and that other beastly policeman, and I just hate having to recall what must have become a bad dream.”

“You needn’t class Sergeant Crome with Inspector Stillman,” Mary Isaacs said warmly. “Sergeant Crome’s a pet. So’s his wife. They live in our street.”

“Ah! I stand reproved.” The chuckle gained more for him than he thought. Mrs Robinov, remembering the demands of her shop, rose to her feet, saying brightly:

“I must go. You listen to the Inspector, Mary, and tell him everything you can.”

She smiled encouragingly at Mary Isaacs.

“Now tell me about Mr Goldspink,” Bony urged. “I know that he was shortish and stout and that he had a beard and hair still not entirely grey. Did he wear glasses, by the way?”

“Only when reading or writing,” Mary replied. “Then he would sort of peer through them like looking through a telescope. He kept them in the top pocket of his waistcoat. Dragged them out and pushed them in so that it was a wonder they didn’t break.”

“I take it that his manner was quick.”

“Yes. Quick in manner and quick in mind.”

“Did he put on his glasses at any time when you were serving that customer with handkerchiefs?”

The dark eyes narrowed, and Bony patiently waited.

“I can’t remember.”

“All right, don’t try,” Bony said hastily. “I don’t want you to force your memory. One’s mind is a queer thing, you know. It stores a lot away and is determined to keep most of what it stores. I’ve found often that the best way to make my memory work is to trick the old mind. I say to it: ‘Well, if you want to sulk, go on sulking’. And then, when I’m thinking of something entirely different, what I want comes to me. Now tell me the routine of the shop-when Mr Goldspink was here.”