“Aguilar,” Audrey rewarded him. “You needn’t be afraid about your place.”
“Thank ye, m’m.”
“May I ask what your name is?” Audrey inquired of the detective as soon as Aguilar had shut the door.
“Hurley,” replied the detective.
“I thought it might be,” said Audrey, sitting down, but not offering seats. “Well, Mr. Hurley, after all your running after Miss Susan Foley, don’t you think it’s rather unfair to say horrid things about a respectable man like Aguilar? You were funny about that stout wife of yours last time I saw you, but you must remember that Aguilar can’t be funny about his wife, because he hasn’t got one.”
“I really don’t know what you’re driving at, miss,” said Mr. Hurley simply.
“Well, what were you driving at when you followed me all the way to London the other day?”
“Madam,” said Mr. Hurley, “I didn’t follow you to London. I only happened to arrive at Charing Cross about twenty seconds after you, that was all. As a matter of fact, nearly half of the way you were following me.”
“Well, I hope you were satisfied.”
“I only want to know one thing,” the detective retorted. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Olivia Moncreiff?”