“Can it be possible? Are you sure?” cried Sir Charles, almost starting from his chair. “And what do you deduce from all this? What do you imply? An accusation against that lady? Absurd!”
“I respect your chivalrous desire to stand up for a lady who calls you her friend, but we are officials first, and sentiment cannot be permitted to influence us. We have good reasons for suspecting that lady. I tell you that frankly, and trust to you as a soldier and man of honour not to abuse the confidence reposed in you.”
“May I not know those reasons?”
“Because she was in the car—the only woman, you understand—between Laroche and Paris.”
“Do you suspect a female hand, then?” asked the General, evidently much interested and impressed.
“That is so, although I am exceeding my duty in revealing this.”
“And you are satisfied that this lady, a refined, delicate person in the best society, of the highest character,—believe me, I know that to be the case,—whom you yet suspect of an atrocious crime, was the only female in the car?”
“Obviously. Who else? What other woman could possibly have been in the car? No one got in at Laroche; the train never stopped till it reached Paris.”
“On that last point at least you are quite mistaken, I assure you. Why not upon the other also?”
“The train stopped?” interjected the detective. “Why has no one told us that?”