Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/45

 not so much, if you know what I mean, Mr. Connolly? I—er—mean it was just a common sort of hat of some color or other—didn’t pay much attention to it.”

“Er, thank you, Mr. Morley,” put in Connolly drily. “That’s very helpful, so far. Now, about her personal appearance, why⸺”

“Why, of course, of course,” Val hastened to interpose. “Her personal appearance, to be sure.” What volumes Val could have written concerning the lady’s personal appearance! What odes to the particular shade of that copper burnished hair! What sonnets to the dainty sweep of those eyelashes! What short stories having to do with the contour of her nose! He gave the sergeant her personal description with barely checked enthusiasm.

“About—er—medium height, sergeant, I think, or perhaps a little shorter—ahem, or was it a little taller?” He paused while he discussed this with himself. “Er—well, it’s of no consequence. That wouldn’t distinguish her—most women are about medium height or a little taller or a little shorter, anyway. Her eyes were of some color or other, I could not see them in this semi-darkness, anyway, and the same for her hair. To tell you the truth, sergeant, now that I come to describe her I find I hardly noticed her at all. People are like that, aren’t they?” he inquired blandly.

“Like what?” asked the sergeant irritably.

“I mean, like I am—er—go through life, you know, with their eyes shut, hardly knowing what goes on around them. You know, you meet and talk to people every day that you couldn’t for the life of you describe, although you may know them well, so how can you expect a man to describe a woman he had no cause to notice”—the Lord have mercy on your soul,