I had risen again, and was walking restlessly away from him as I came to this quick halt in what I was about to say. He was watching me, carefully, thoughtfully, out of the corner of his eye. I was aware of this and, as I turned to face him again, I took pains to finish my sentence with quite a different ending from that which had almost slipped from my unwary tongue.
“But first, I want your advice. Shall I return to the house, or go to the hotel and send for my clothes?”
“Return to the house, by all means. You need not stay there more than the one night. You are innocent. You believe that the house and much more are yours by your uncle’s will. Why should you not return to your own? You are not the man to display any bravado; neither are you the man to accept the opinion of servants and underlings.”
“But—but—my cousin, Orpha? The real owner, as I look at it, of everything there?”
“Miss Bartholomew has a just mind. She will accept your point of view—for the present, at least.”
I dared not say more. I was never quite myself when I had to speak her name.
He seemed to respect my reticence and after some further talk, I left him and betook myself to the house which held for me everything I loved and everything I feared in the world I had made for myself.
XXXIII
During the first portion of this walk I forced my mind to dwell on the astonishing fact that the Inspector whom I had regarded as holding me in suspicion was the one man most convinced of my innocence. He had certainly shown no leaning that way in the memorable interview we had held together. What had changed him? Or had I simply misunderstood his attitude, natural enough to an amateur who finds himself for the first time in his life subject to the machinations of the police.
As I had no means of answering this query, I gradually allowed the matter, great as it was, to slip from my mind, and another and more present interest to fill it.