"You have been talking too much, Basil," she said. "You know that it is not good for you."
He leaned across to the little table which stood by his side and helped himself to brandy. He was indeed looking terribly ill. The lines under his eyes seemed traced with a coal-black pencil, and his hand shook so that half the brandy was spilled.
"Winifred," he said, "I must ask you a question. You remember that I spoke to you of a document—Sinclair had it. I was trying to deal with him, trying to get it back for Mr. Deane here."
"Yes," she answered calmly, "I remember your speaking of it."
"We have reason to believe," he continued, gasping a little,—"reason to believe that it has been stolen. Mr. Deane wants to know whether at any time you have mentioned its existence to anyone."
She looked at Deane and back at her brother. Her face was unchanged. "No!" she said. "I have mentioned it to no one."
"You see," her brother continued, "it's like this. No one but I knew of that paper. Deane here told me, and I told no one except you. And yet we have evidence, we know that it has been stolen from Sinclair's room since his death. That is why we want you to be quite sure that you did not mention its existence to anyone."
"No mention of it has crossed my lips," she answered. "I have no friends, no confidants. I have spoken to no one about it. Nothing in the world," she continued, "would be more improbable than that I should have done so."
He turned to Deane, who stood by with impassive face. "You hear?" he exclaimed. "You hear? I was quite sure about Winifred. She doesn't go talking about. She's no gossip, are you, Winifred?"
"I hope not," she answered.