I do not know whether his keen questioning or this sudden quiet change of tone and the idea of leaving her at such a time had a greater effect. She shot him one startled look, then bowed in silence as we, in turn, bowed ourselves out. She even denied herself the final glance of curiosity, lest she might betray sudden relief changed to deep-seated fear at the sudden departure of Kennedy, with his cool assumption of power.
Outside, we encountered Celeste, who had been hovering in the hall, apparently listening. Quietly Kennedy beckoned her down the hall, away from the door we had just left, while he paused a moment to question her.
"I wish you would refresh your memory, mademoiselle," he began, suddenly. "Are you sure—absolutely sure that on the night Mr. Wilford was murdered madame was here—that she was not out—at all?"
His tone was such as to imply, not suspicion, but certainty that Celeste had been lying, that Mrs. Wilford had been out.
"Oh, but yes, monsieur," Celeste replied, glibly. "I was with madame all the evening. No—no—she was not out. She was here—all the evening—waiting for him. I can swear it. How many times must I swear it—to you—to those—those beasts!"
Celeste nodded outside. Kennedy smiled.
"Who should know better than I what madame was doing?" continued Celeste, vehemently.
Kennedy did not pursue the subject.
"You love madame, don't you, Celeste?" he asked, simply.
"Why—yes!" replied the girl, startled by the unexpectedness of the question.