“Do you suppose we haven't?” John Steadman interposed gently. “Dear Madeline, no stone is being left unturned in our endeavours to bring Luke's murderer to justice. Have patience a little longer!”
“Patience, patience! I have no patience!” Mrs. Bechcombe pushed Steadman's outstretched hand away wrathfully and turned to Mrs. Phillimore. “Sadie, you thought the same—you said you did just now!”
In spite of her pallor Steadman fancied that the Butterfly looked considerably taken aback.
“I don't think I said quite that,” she hesitated, “I don't know what to think. I feel that I can't—daren't think—anything.”
“What?” Mrs. Bechcombe raised her hand.
For one moment Steadman thought she was about to strike her guest, and with some instinct of protection he stepped to the Butterfly's side.
The Butterfly visibly flinched. “I—I think I said more than I ought,” she acknowledged frankly. “When you said she was telling lies, I—I didn't know what to say.”
“What did you say?” Steadman inquired quietly. “Did you say anything that could be misinterpreted?”
The Butterfly raised a fragment of cambric, widely edged with real lace. Apparently it did duty as a pocket-handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, taking care, as Steadman noticed, not to touch her carefully pencilled eyebrows.
“I said I didn't think Mrs. Carnthwacke was telling us all she knew,” she confessed. “I cannot tell what made me feel that, but I did. She—she was keeping something back, I am sure, and her husband knew that she was.”