She held out her hands—tiny little white hands, ringless and soft.
“My dear man,” she exclaimed, “how can I? Give information to the police, indeed! What, go and admit before a magistrate that I had been to a fortune-teller, especially,” she added, looking down, “on such an errand?”
He drew a little nearer to her.
“I beg your pardon,” he answered. “I was thoughtless. That, of course, is not possible. Tell me the name and the address of the person to whom you went.”
“The woman’s name was Helga,” she answered, “and it was in the upper end of Bond Street. Daisy Knowles told me about the place. Heaps of people I know have been.”
“And the letter?” he asked. “Tell me, if you can, what is its precise significance?”
“It was a letter from Charlie Peyton,” she answered—“Major Peyton, in the Guards, you know. There wasn’t anything in it that mattered really, but I shall not have a moment’s peace until it is returned to me.”
“Have you told me everything?” he asked.
“No!” she admitted.
“Perhaps it would be as well,” he murmured.