“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. " The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. "What's that?" demanded McClintock. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She had heard Alice talking and crying at the same time, a painful noise. Understand me! I forbid it. That is so awful.
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