Johnson Boller moved not even a muscle.
"Who is the woman?" Beatrice cried vibrantly. "Who is she?"
And still neither Anthony nor Johnson Boller seemed able to canter up to the situation and carry it of with a blithe laugh. Anthony was making queer mouths; Johnson Boller was doing nothing whatever, even now; and when three seconds had passed Beatrice whirled abruptly on the only other possible source of information present, which happened to be Wilkins.
"You were here!" she said swiftly. "You answer me: who was the woman?"
"The—the woman, ma'am!" Wilkins repeated.
Beatrice came nearer and looked up at him, and there was that in her eyes which sent Wilkins back a full pace.
"You—you creature!" Beatrice said. "What woman was in this apartment last night?"
Now, as it chanced, Wilkins was far more intelligent than he looked. Give him the mere hint to a situation and he could lumber through somehow. Only a little while ago, when Hobart Hitchin came upon them, he had caught the key to this affair—so he smiled quite confidently and bowed.
"There was no woman here last night, ma'am," said Wilkins, "only Mrs. Boller, the wife of that gentleman there!"