“I don’t talk,” she said, “but I study women and men and put two and two
together rather as you do yourself. And when I’ve done my addition I
like turning up the answer to see if I’m right.”
“Well,” said I, wondering what was afoot.
“Well, I’ve done a sum,” she said, “and you’ve got the answer. If I tell
you my result, will you tell me whether it’s right?”
“It depends on the sum,” said I. “I don’t talk either, you know.”
“It’s nothing to do with your job. It’s a purely personal matter.”
“In that case I’ll say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’”
“Right,” said Sarah Roach, “and remember—I don’t talk. Did you kill
Berwick Perowne?”
“I had that pleasure,” said I. “But how did you know?”
She laughed.
“Simple addition,” she said. “Besides, I’m half a prophet.”
Which is all she’ll ever be, so far as I’m concerned. For I see from
this morning’s paper that Sir George —— is dead.