“The question,” I said, “is of Ellen Trimmer. You walked out with her once, you know.”
He took up a lath of wood, squinted along its edge, and put it down.
“Did I, sir?” he said. “Dear me; how one forgets.”
“You haven’t forgotten, of course. I can quite understand you. Mrs Churton wouldn’t favour such reminiscences.”
“Well, no, she wouldn’t,” he said. “Why should she, now?”
“She might, you know,” I answered, “if your peace of mind were in question.”
“It never is,” he said.
“Say your safety, then.”
That obviously agitated him a little.
“You see,” I went on, “to keep to yourself a secret which touches on the question of a crime, is to make yourself an accessory after the fact.”