The widow lady, the porter told him, had gone away two or three minutes
ago in the motor that had been waiting for her. No, he hadn't noticed the
number of the car. Neither had he seen Higgs.

Gimblet shrugged his shoulders as he went upstairs again. After all, the
matter was of no great consequence.

The widow was a cool hand, certainly, he thought, to come to him and
propose he should steal for her what she wanted; but the fact of her
having done so made it on the whole improbable that she was a thief, or
she would not have had need of him. She was certainly a person of
questionable principles, and it seemed likely that in one way or another
a theft would be committed through her agency, if not by herself, as
soon as the opportunity presented itself. She was, in fact, a woman on
whom the police might do worse than keep an eye; but, reflected Gimblet,
he was not the police, and the dishonesty of this scheming widow was
really no concern of his. As he reached his door, a postman was leaving
it, and two or three letters had been pushed through the flap. He let
himself in and took them out of the box. They were not of great
importance. A bill, an appeal for a subscription to some charity, a
couple of advertisements and the catalogue of a sale of pictures in
which he was interested. He turned over the leaves slowly, holding the
pamphlet sideways from time to time to look at the photographs which
illustrated some of the principal lots.

Presently he turned and went back into his room. He sat down in his
favourite arm-chair near the window, where he habitually passed so much
time gazing out on to the smooth surface of the river, and fell to
ruminating on the problem presented by Lord Ashiel's story.