“You went to Bournemouth, and you found—what? Not that Mrs. What’s-her-name—Horne—was a myth, as you expected, or conveniently—and, mind you, not unplausibly—dead, as I expected, but an actual, existent, highly respectable, though somewhat doting, old lady. She had you badly there, George my boy!”
“Yes,” admitted George. “I wonder if she knew the woman was alive?”
“She chanced it; wished she might be dead, perhaps, but chanced it. That, George, is where Mrs. Witt is great.”
“Mrs. Horne doesn’t remember her being there in March, or indeed April.”
“Perhaps not; but she doesn’t say the contrary.”
“Oh, no. She said that if the character says March, of course it was March.”
“The ‘of course’ betrays a lay mind. But still the character does say March—for what it’s worth.”
“The copy of it does.”
“I know what you mean. But think before you say that, George. It’s pretty strong; and you haven’t a tittle of evidence to support you.”
“I don’t want to say a word. I’ll let them alone, if they’ll let me alone. But that woman’s Nelly Game, as sure as I’m——”