“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” she declared shortly.
Mr. Johnson, himself something of an adept in the art of guarded conversation, was taken thoroughly aback. For a moment he could think of nothing to say.
“Why do you want to come and live in a house in an out-of-the-way village like this—a house, too, in which another man was murdered? Do you wish me to believe that it was chance, or, perhaps, morbid curiosity, or had you another reason?”
“My dear madame,” Mr. Johnson assured her, “as to morbid curiosity, not a soul even mentioned the matter to me till after I had paid over the contract deposit and secured the lease of the house.”
“Never mind whether they mentioned it or not,” she persisted, her fine eyes challenging his. “Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know about it?”
Mr. Johnson, thoroughly on his guard now, adopted a soothing tone.
“How could I?” he expostulated. “I am a complete stranger to this neighbourhood, and, as a matter of fact, I have spent most of my life abroad.”
“The man who was murdered,” she continued—“you know he was my brother—had also lived abroad. Had you met him?”
“Coincidences are scarcely likely to multiply themselves,” he remarked drily. “I hail from New York and your brother, I understand, had spent most of his life in China.”
She lay quite still for a moment, her hands clasped. She seemed to be considering.