"Do you know what that something is?" he asked.
"No, or I should tell you myself."
"And what makes you think she is hiding anything from us?"
"Her manner. Did you not notice her manner?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It conveyed much to me," I insisted. "If I were a detective I would have the secret out of that woman or die in the attempt."
He laughed; this sly, old, almost decrepit man laughed outright. Then he looked severely at his old friend on the newel-post, and drawing himself up with some show of dignity, made this remark:
"It is my very good fortune to have made your acquaintance, Miss Butterworth. You and I ought to be able to work out this case in a way that will be satisfactory to all parties."
He meant it for sarcasm, but I took it quite seriously, that is to all appearance. I am as sly as he, and though not quite as old—now I am sarcastic—have some of his wits, if but little of his experience.
"Then let us to work," said I. "You have your theories about this murder, and I have mine; let us see how they compare."