“I—I am not sure!”
“You are discreet, I see.”
“Indeed, no,” I assured him. “The last time I saw Mr. Merritt he was still in doubt as to the man’s real name.”
“He only knew that the initials were A. B.,” said Atkins, quickly.
I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife. They sat, facing each other, unflinchingly, like two antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn and set. But the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I had not managed to catch her. Instead of assisting me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“Come here,” I said, “and help me to carry your wife to the window.”
He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me, and, together, we carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.
“Look here, you told me yourself that all mention of the murder made your wife extremely nervous, and yet you distinctly encouraged us to talk about it this evening. Do you think that right?”
He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared not to understand what I was saying.