Her ideas of detectives were
entirely drawn from sensational magazines and her private opinion
was that Anderson might have anything in his pocket from a set of
terrifying false whiskers to a bomb!
Miss Cornelia, obedient to the detective's instructions, promptly
told the whitest of fibs for Lizzie's benefit.
"The maid will show you to your room now and you can make yourself
comfortable for the night." There--that would mislead Lizzie,
without being quite a lie.
"My toilet is made for an occasion like this when I've got my gun
loaded," answered Anderson carelessly. The allusion to the gun made
Lizzie start nervously, unhappily for her, for it drew his attention
to her and he now transfixed her with a stare.
"This is the maid you referred to?" he inquired. Miss Cornelia
assented. He drew nearer to the unhappy Lizzie.
"What's your name?" he asked, turning to her.
"E-Elizabeth Allen," stammered Lizzie, feeling like a small and
distrustful sparrow in the toils of an officious python.
Anderson seemed to run through a mental rogues gallery of other
criminals named Elizabeth Allen that he had known.
"How old are you?" he proceeded.
Lizzie looked at her mistress despairingly. "Have I got to answer
that?" she wailed. Miss Cornelia nodded--inexorably.
Lizzie braced herself. "Thirty-two," she said, with an arch toss
of her head.
The detective looked surprised and slightly amused.
"She's fifty if she's a day," said Miss Cornelia treacherously in
spite of a look from Lizzie that would have melted a stone.
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