“There is an idea here,” she recommenced abruptly, “that you are either a detective or that you have come here determined, for some reason of your own, to solve the mystery of my brother’s murder, that you knew all about it before you came, that you took the house on purpose. What about that?”
Her eyes seemed to be trying to bore their way through to the back of his head. Mr. Johnson remained imperturbable.
“My dear lady,” he protested, “I can assure you that this is a foolish fancy.”
She had raised herself a little, and she sank back now amongst the cushions. The hard insistence had gone from her eyes but she was still uneasy.
“I hope,” she said, “that you are speaking the truth. I hope you are.”
“Mr. Endacott,” he reflected, “was, as you have just reminded me, your brother.”
“He was,” she admitted.
“Then why,” he asked, “do you feel so strongly upon the matter? I mean, supposing I were a detective—which I am not—or an amateur criminologist, or anything of that sort, bent upon discovering the secret of the crime at the Great House; surely you should welcome my efforts. Why not?”
A gleam of horror lit her eyes.
“You know nothing about it,” she cried. “It is not a matter for any one to meddle with. Ralph was my brother, it is true, but he is dead and there is an end of it. I am his nearest surviving relative. It is for me to say. It is for no one else. If any one dares to interfere they shall suffer.”