She seated herself silently and sent him a blank glance.
“What I want to inquire is something more about Martin. Can you tell me nothing of his history before he came to Mr. Millicent?”
“Why should you ask me, sir?”
“Who else is there to inquire from? You occupy just the same trusted position that you have for years past. You’ve let me into your feelings enough to know that you perceive things that are not usually seen, and you’re aware that I’m doing what I can to clear up the mystery of your master’s death. Shall I say to you that I’m convinced you are trying to shield some one in this affair?”
“Don’t say that, sir,” she whispered shakily.
“What other conclusion can I come to?”
She stared at him as though he was an intruder on some strictly private domain and had come to rifle her very soul.
“Do you think there’s any connection between the murder and the arrival of this peddler?”
Perkins shook her head. She made no attempt to disguise her knowledge of the stranger’s advent and now seemed touched with the same helplessness that had so lately swept over Martin. Her hands were slack in her lap, and he noted their smoothness and strength.
“I’m afraid I cannot help,” she muttered.