“Where is Cartwright?”
“Cartwright?” she repeated. “What do you want to know of him?”
“Lower your voice, if you please,” said Timothy sharply. “What is Cartwright to you?”
She licked her dry lips before she spoke. Then:
“I married Cartwright or Benson in Paris—years ago,” she said.
Timothy took a step back.
“You married Cartwright,” he said incredulously. “That explains why you came away?”
She was looking at him steadily.
“If it wanted any explanation—yes,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going after the man you have upstairs, the fake Moor, who came into this house half an hour ago, and I’m going to hand him to justice.”