She had attempted to thank him before, when she first recovered her senses and realized her position, but he had sensitively deprecated that. On that same day she had told him her name, told him that she was French, that in England she was friendless, and that of what little she possessed she had been robbed by the man whom he had seen attack her—a man whom she had never seen before; and this was all that he knew about her. He wanted to know more, but he sat before her wondering how to phrase his questions. In spite of his curiosity he would have deferred them had it been possible, but it was not possible; and he broke the silence timidly, for as he spoke she looked at him full in the face with her dark eyes.
"Miss Boucheafen, if you are strong enough to allow of it—"
"As I said, sir, I am well."
"I must, with your permission, ask you a few questions." He hesitated, almost confused under her steady gaze. "I am presuming that you would rather reply to me than be questioned by a police-officer?"
"I do prefer it, sir."
"Then," said the Doctor, "this man who so murderously attacked you—you can tell nothing about him?"
"Nothing, sir—I know nothing."
"Absolutely nothing?"
"Absolutely!"
"You do not know his motive?"