The public had generally accepted the statement as a forgery and was laughing at its clumsiness; but there would come a waking time when it realised that as a forgery it had no bearing upon the solution of the murder mystery, and that would be the moment of danger. She found her son, Charles Matthewson, and taking his arm went to the refreshment room. “You’re dead tired, mother,” he said. “A man of iron couldn’t stand these affairs.” “No,” she said. “It requires something finer than iron. Your man of iron is a poor simile for strength. It’s got to be better than that.” “By George; I only hope when I’m sixty, I can stand as much as you!” “Is that your tact, Charles, to mention a woman’s age in public? I know the people know my age, but I object to their knowing that I know.” “Much you care, mother. You can leave such stuff as that to the silly herd.” A man passed by and took his seat at a table out of ear range. He did not look in her direction as he passed, and she did not even glance in his; but she felt his presence, and knew also that Charles had seen him and recognised him. She ran on with her light chat, seemingly taking no note of her son’s distraught manner and absent-minded replies; but after she had let things go on for a safe space, she suddenly looked up with: “Really, Charles, I might as well save my foolishness for somebody who is less occupied than you seem to be. I should say you were more interested in that man over there than in me.” “Was I really giving attention to him?” the son demanded. “Most really, and I’m simply wondering where you learned your self-control, that you can do a thing so apparent to a whole roomful.” She had not asked a word regarding the man, certain as she was that he would tell her all he knew. “Do you know who that man is?” her son asked. “No; really,” she said, putting up her glasses, “I had simply noticed him as a man from whom you did not seem able to keep your eyes. Now I look at him, I don’t see anything particularly worth noticing.” “It’s Trafford, the detective. He’s said to be on this Wing murder case.” “Oh, is that so?” she said, raising her glasses again. “In that case, I suppose one’s permitted to look at him, since that’s largely his stock in trade. He doesn’t look smart.” “That’s his stock in trade too,” said Charles, a trifle impatiently for the son of such a woman. “If he looked half as smart as he is, he’d look too smart for his work, and if he was really as dull as he looks, he’d be too stupid.” “And they depend on him to unravel the Wing murder?” she asked. “Oh, the Wing murder,” echoed an acquaintance who was passing. “Why didn’t that stupid coroner arrest that fellow Oldman--if that was his name? My husband says if he takes the opportunity to run away, it may be interesting for the coroner. Of course, nobody has a doubt that he’s the murderer. You think so, Mr. Matthewson, don’t you?”