"I always do," he said. "My wife's one of the sensible sort, and when a man takes her advice he don't go far wrong. She advised me to go straight to the police-station and tell them all I know. 'It is a cruel murder,' she said, 'and who knows but it might be our turn next?'" This example of the imaginative element in feminine logic made no impression on the practical official who listened to the admiring husband. "That is all right," said Inspector Chippenfield soothingly. "I understand your scruples. They do you credit. But an honest man like you doesn't want to shield a criminal from justice--least of all a cold-blooded murderer." When Rolfe returned to his superior with Evans's signed statement in his hand, he found the inspector preparing to leave the office. "Put on your hat and come with me," said the inspector. "We will go out and see Mrs. Hill. I'll frighten the truth out of her and then tackle Hill. He is sure to be up at Riversbrook, and we can go on there from Camden Town." While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, Inspector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the object of saving time. He would interview Mrs. Hill and while he was doing so Rolfe could make inquiries at the neighbouring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector's conviction that a man who had anything to do with a murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next day. Mrs. Hill kept a small confectionery shop adjoining a cinema theatre to supplement her husband's wages by a little earnings of her own in order to support her child. Although the shop was an unpretentious one, and catered mainly for the ha'p'orths of the juvenile patrons of the picture house next door, it was called "The Camden Town Confectionery Emporium," and the title was printed over the little shop in large letters. Inspector Chippenfield walked into the empty shop, and rapped sharply on the counter. A little thin woman, with prematurely grey hair, and a depressed expression, appeared from the back in response to the summons. She started nervously as her eye encountered the police uniform, but she waited to be spoken to. "Is your name Hill?" asked the inspector sternly. "Mrs. Emily Hill?" The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed on the inspector's face. "Then I want to have a word with you," continued the inspector, walking through the shop into the parlour. "Come in here and answer my questions." Mrs. Hill followed him timidly into the room he had entered. It was a small, shabbily-furnished apartment, and the inspector's massive proportions made it look smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the strip of drugget which did duty as a hearth-rug, and staring fiercely at her, suddenly commenced: "Mrs. Hill, where was your husband on the night of the 18th of August, when his employer, Sir Horace Fewbanks, was murdered?" Mrs. Hill shrank before that fierce gaze, and said, in a low tone: "Please, sir, he was at home."