“Will you not be seated?” he said, placing a chair for her.
“Will you regard what I have to say to you in strict confidence?” she queried, sinking her voice to a whisper.
“Is it about Mr. Turold’s murder?”
“It—it may be.”
With the recollection of previous eavesdropping in that house, the lawyer rose and closed the door. “I cannot make a promise of that kind,” he said firmly, as he returned to his seat.
“No, no—of course not,” she hurriedly acquiesced. “I was wrong to ask it. I have come here to tell you. When I saw you this afternoon I realized that Providence had answered my prayers, and sent somebody in whom I could safely confide. I will tell you everything. I have come here for that purpose.”
She seemed to have a difficulty in commencing. Her pale grey eyes wandered irresolutely from his, and then returned. It was with a perceptible effort that she spoke at last.
“What I am about to tell you I have known for some days, but I could not bring myself to the extreme step of going to the police. Sometimes I am inclined to think that it may be only a trifling thing, easily explained, and of no importance. But sometimes—at night—it assumes a terrible significance. I need counsel—wise counsel—about it.”
She paused and looked at him wistfully. As though interpreting his nod as encouragement, she went on—.
“Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates of my household for the last six weeks. Mr. Robert Turold arranged it with me beforehand. I had never done anything of the kind before, but our means—my husband’s and mine—are insufficient for the stress of these times. After all, people must live.”