‘Must I give an account of every movement?’ said she, trying to cover her confusion with a show of haughty offence.
The coincidence was really a remarkable one; it was as hard to account for Euphrosyne’s disappearance and reappearance as for the vanished head and body of old Stefan. I had a conviction, based on a sudden intuition, that one explanation must lie at the root of both these curious things, that the secret of which Alexander spoke was a secret still hidden—hidden from my eyes, but known to the girl before me, the daughter of the Stefanopouloi.
‘I won’t ask you where you’ve been, if you don’t wish to tell me,’ said I carelessly.
She bowed her head in recognition of my indulgence.
‘But there is one question I should like to ask you,’ I pursued, ‘if you’ll be so kind as to answer it.’
‘Well, what is it?’ She was still on the defensive.
‘Where was Stefan Stefanopoulos killed, and what became of his body?’
As I put the question I flung One-Eyed Alexander’s book open on the table beside her.
She started visibly, crying, ‘Where did you get that?’
I told her how Denny had found it, and I added: