t there were women detectives?" laughed the girl. "And you're right! My position is unique. I am assistant to Chief Inspector Coldwell. The Commissioners, who are rather conservative people, do not object to that. But I suppose I really am a detective. I make inquiries."
She stood by the table, one hand on her hip, one playing with the leaves of the picture paper, her unwavering gaze fixed on Jane Raytham.
"I'm making inquiries now, Lady Raytham," she said quietly. "I want to know why you drew twenty thousand pounds from your bank last Monday."
For a second the woman was panic-stricken; so far lost charge that she all but stammered the truth. The will that held her silent, apparently unmoved, was the supreme effort of her life. Then her training came to her rescue.
The control of her voice was perfect.
"Since when have the police had authority to supervise the banking accounts of private citizens?" she asked in cold, measured tones. "That is an extraordinary request. Is it,
A good read! With a female Scotland Yard head as the sleuth, whose curiosity about a book of poems, leads to exposure of many evils committed and danger for herself. Aside from bigotry found in most fiction of that era, you' ll like seeing how it comes together.