“Madam,” Peter Ruff said, “I should like to help you, and I will do what I can. But in order that I may do so, it is necessary that you should answer me two questions—truthfully!”
Her eyes grew wider. It was the face of a terrified child.
“Why not?” she exclaimed. “What have I to conceal?”
Peter Ruff’s expression never changed. There was nothing about him, as he stood there with his hands behind him, his head thrown a little forward, in the least inspiring—nothing calculated to terrify the most timid person. Yet the girl looked at him with the eyes of a frightened bird.
“Remember, then,” he continued, smoothly, “that what you say to me is sacred. You and I are alone without witnesses or eavesdroppers. Was it Brian Sotherst who shot Abbott—or was it you?”
She gave a little cry. Her hands clasped the sides of her head in horror.
“I!” she exclaimed, “I! God help me!”
He waited. In a moment she looked up.
“You cannot believe that,” she said, with a calmness for which he was scarcely prepared. “It is absurd. I left the room by the inner door as he took up his hat to step out into the hall.”
“Incidentally,” he asked—“this is not my other question, mind—why did you not let him out yourself?”