Mr. Thurwell moved a little uneasily in his chair.
"He did not find out anything, then?" he asked.
She was silent. She had not expected this, and she scarcely knew how to answer.
"He found out what Mr. Brown—I mean Mr. Maddison—himself told me, that he had known Sir Geoffrey abroad."
"Nothing more?"
"I did not ask. To tell the truth, I was not interested. The idea of Mr. Maddison being connected with such a crime is simply ridiculous. I was heartily sorry that I had ever taken any steps at all."
Mr. Thurwell lit a cigarette, and drew his remaining letters toward him.
"I must confess," he said slowly, "that when his house was searched in my presence, and all that we discovered was that Mr. Brown was really Bernard Maddison, I felt very much as you feel; and, as you no doubt remember, I went out of my way to be civil to the man, and brought him up here to dine. But since then things have cropped up, and I'm bound to say that it looks a little queer. I hear that young man of yours told several people that he had in his pocket what would bring Mr. Brown to the scaffold any day."
"It is not true," she answered in a low firm tone. "I know that it is not true."
Mr. Thurwell shrugged his shoulders.