"I have come to see you about Mr. Barton's murder, Mr. Prince."
The pleasant smile vanished from his face, and gave place to an expression of extreme officialdom.
"Indeed!"
"Yes. I have something to tell you, which perhaps you will say I should have told you before. Mr. Barton's niece, Mrs. Darrow, accuses me of having inspired her uncle's murder!"
"Miss Crane, you surprise me," said the inspector. "That would mean that you were an accessory before the fact—a very serious charge, very serious."
"Exactly, and that is why I am here, Mr. Prince. I place myself unreservedly in your hands. It is, I need hardly say, as false a charge as it is malicious, and against such malice I feel I must protect myself. I felt that you were the proper person to come to. This Mrs. Darrow, I must tell you, hates me. I have been for some time, as I daresay you are aware, in her house as governess to her little boy. Not long since she contrived to overhear a conversation between myself and a friend of mine who came down from London to apply to me for help. She actually followed me to the place where I was to meet him, and in hiding listened to what passed between us. It so happened that my friend spoke of Mr. Barton in terms which he should not have used, and it is upon this that she has made this charge against me."
"May I ask the name of your friend?"
"Jabez——" Miriam gave a cursory glance round the room. "Jabez Tracey," she added, after a pause.
Now if Inspector Prince had been as clever as the cleverest of his kind, he would not have failed to notice that glance of Miriam's, and, having noticed it, to remark that the name Tracey was there in all the largeness of print upon a list of voters hanging on the wall. As it was he noticed nothing of the kind.
"Jabez Tracey," he repeated. "Well, let me hear some of the conversation, please, Miss Crane."