“Hardly even that.”
“What then?” she demanded, with her large dark eyes fixed in a curious fascination on his inscrutable face.
“That behind the couch we have found this scrap of powder-singed paper.”
There was a moment’s silence. The girl turned away her head.
“I am afraid that I am a little disappointed,” she murmured.
“Perhaps better now than later. I wished to warn you that we must prove every inch of ground. Does your cousin Frank smoke cigarettes?”
“I cannot say, Mr Carrados. You see ... I knew so little of him.”
“Quite so; there was just the chance. And your father?”
“He never did. He despised them.”
“That is all I need ask you now. What time to-morrow shall I find you in, Miss Whitmarsh? It is Sunday, you remember.”