Again the stranger, with unruffled urbanity, betrayed his alert independence. “If you have no objection, I prefer my own.”
“As you like.” Hindwood was determined to conduct the interview along the lines of social politeness. Selecting a cigar himself, he notched the end. “I'm entirely at your disposal. There's little I can tell. I suppose the subject on which you're anxious to consult me is what happened on the Ryndam?”
“Yes and no.” The stranger puffed leisurely for a few moments. “The answer is yes, if by 'what happened on the Ryndam you mean Santa Gorlof.”
III
Santa Gorlof?” Hindwood feigned surprise. “A very charming lady!”
The shrewd face puckered in a smile. The gray eyes grew piercing beneath the beetling, white brows. “So I've been given to understand. She has a way with the men, has our Santa. Even Prince Rogovich, old hand that he was, fell for her. I believe that's your expressive phrase in America. He fell for her in every sense, especially when she pushed him overboard.”
Hindwood frowned. He realized that a cat-and-mouse game had commenced, in which he had been allotted the rôle of mouse. He resented the levity with which Santa's name had been mentioned. If the man was in earnest, the matter was too terrible for jest. Though he had harbored the same suspicion, to hear it stated as a fact appalled him. The charge sounded dastardly, spoken in that pleasant voice by this courtly English gentleman who was old enough to be her father.
With an effort he kept command of his composure. “Of course you're joking?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then, in plain American, you're accusing a beautiful and fascinating woman of murder.”