Lord Peter pulled himself together.
"Foreign," he said to himself matter-of-factly. "Touch of Jew perhaps, or Spanish, is it? Remarkable type. Don't blame Jerry. Couldn't live with Helen myself. Now for it."
He advanced quickly.
"Good morning," she said, "are you better?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you—thanks to your kindness, which I do not know how to repay."
"You will repay any kindness best by going at once," she answered in her remote voice. "My husband does not care for strangers, and 'twas unfortunate the way you met before."
"I will go directly. But I must first beg for the favor of a word with you." He peered past her into the dimness of the dairy. "In here, perhaps?"
"What do you want with me?"
She stepped back, however, and allowed him to follow her in.
"Mrs. Grimethorpe, I am placed in a most painful position. You know that my brother, the Duke of Denver, is in prison, awaiting his trial for a murder which took place on the night of October 13th?"