“They couldn’t have, Mr. Bathurst!” She spoke with conviction.
“Unless—pardon me making the suggestion—unless Prescott himself spoke of it to somebody.”
“That’s hardly likely, do you think?” she commented, the violet eyes brimming with tears at the recollection of this man who had loved her, and died so tragically in her home, “so improbable that surely we may dismiss the idea?”
“Had Prescott any particular chum in the house-party?”
“I don’t think so,” she responded. “Bill might know better than I.”
“Had he, Bill?” Anthony fired the question at me.
“No! I should say not. At any rate I hadn’t noticed any particular ‘Fidus Achates.’”
“I agree with you then, Miss Considine,” broke in Anthony. “It is extremely unlikely that he would have confided in anybody.”
Then she amazed him with her next remark.
“You don’t ask if he had an enemy?”