"And Manderson? Did he say no more?"
"Not a word. He listened to me with his eyes on my face, as quiet as before. When I stopped he smiled very slightly, and at once turned away and strolled through the gate, making for White Gables."
"And this happened—?"
"On the Sunday morning."
"Then I suppose you never saw him alive again?"
"No," said Mr. Cupples. "Or rather, yes—once. It was later in the day, on the golf-course. But I did not speak to him. And next morning he was found dead."
The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments. A party of guests who had been bathing came up the steps and seated themselves, with much chattering, at a table near them. The waiter approached. Mr. Cupples rose, and taking Trent's arm led him to a long tennis-lawn at the side of the hotel.
"I have a reason for telling you all this," began Mr. Cupples as they paced slowly up and down.
"Trust you for that," rejoined Trent, carefully filling his pipe again. He lit it, smoked a little and then said: "I'll try and guess what your reason is, if you like."
Mr. Cupples' face of solemnity relaxed into a slight smile. He said nothing.