"No," I stopped him. "I don't think you're in a position to try a blackmail 'stunt.' My 'hints,' as you call them, concerned the real Lady Scarlett; the legitimate daughter of your elder brother Cecil, and his namesake."
As I flung this bomb I sprang up and stood conspicuously close to the old-fashioned bell rope.
The man and woman sprang up also. The former had turned yellowish green, the latter brick-red. They looked like badly lit stage demons.
"So that's it!" spluttered the German wine merchant's daughter, when she could speak.
"That's it," I echoed. "Now, do you still want to call the police and charge me with kidnapping? You can search my rooms yourselves if you like. You'll find nothing. Can you say the same of your own?"
"Yes!" Scarlett jerked the word out. "We can and do say the same. Do you think we're fools enough to leave the place alone with only Kramm on guard, if we had someone concealed there?"
"Ah, the cap fits!" I cried. "I didn't accuse you. As you said, I merely 'hinted.'"
I scored a point, to judge by their looks. But they had scored against me also. I realized that my guess had not been wrong. There was a secret hiding-place to which the garden court suite had access. That was one reason why the Scarletts had chosen the suite. By this time Terry Burns was there, with Kramm laughing in her sleeve while pretending to be outraged at his intrusion. If only I were on the spot instead of Terry, I might have a sporting chance to ferret out the secret, for I—so to speak—had been reared in an atmosphere of "hidie-holes" for priests, cavaliers, and kings, of whom several in times of terror had found asylum at our old Abbey. But Terry Burns was an American. It wasn't in his blood to detect secret springs and locks!
I ceased to depend on what Terry might do, and "fell back upon myself."
"You talk like a madwoman!" sneered Madame Defarge. But her hands trembled. She must have missed her knitting!