“I couldn’t possibly answer that, Mr. Bathurst. Much as I should like to. On this second occasion all I was able to catch sight of was part of a man’s body flattened against the angle of a wall.”
“I appreciate your difficulty. Now tell me of the third occasion.”
“The third time was, comparatively speaking, a trivial incident. On Friday evening—once again, not long after dinner, I was standing with Gerald in the opening of the drawing-room doors leading on to the garden. We were standing just inside the drawing-room. The others were still discussing that ‘detective’ conversation you yourself had started—Gerald Prescott and I had drifted away. In the midst of our conversation I thought I caught the sound of a very low cough coming from somewhere near—in the garden. When Gerald went in to play cards, I had the temerity to go out there. There was a dark patch of shadow just to the right, by the wall again—and Mr. Bathurst”—she paused dramatically—“all around that patch hung the pungent aroma of a recently smoked cigar.” She leaned over and put her hand on his sleeve. “Have I impressed you that some person or persons—was spying on him?”
“What was the conversation between you and Prescott on this last occasion?”
“He was pressing me for a reply to his proposal. The conversation didn’t last five minutes.”
Anthony looked perturbed. Some element in this latest information was worrying him.
“You didn’t give him one, of course, or any indication of your feelings?”
“None. I evaded the issue. We didn’t exchange more than half a dozen sentences.”
“Tell me, Miss Considine,” Anthony became very insistent, “did Prescott, as far as you were able to observe, betray any agitation or emotion, on any one of these three occasions?”
“As far as I was able to judge, Mr. Bathurst, none at all. I am not really sure that he ever saw or heard what I did. If he did, I could not detect that he showed it.”