"Queer," admitted Vane, staring absently out into the shadowy garden. "Do you think she murdered the Squire?"
"How do I know. She might have done so in order to place me in possession of the money at once. There is certainly a motive. Perhaps,"--Hench's face grew less gloomy,--"perhaps that is why she hasn't moved in the matter so far."
"How did you expect her to move?"
"Well, she must have guessed that I would keep the appointment, and when she saw that my uncle was murdered she naturally would accuse me. Instead of doing this she has held her tongue."
"Only for a time, old son. Believe me, she may turn up here any day. Naturally she wouldn't queer her pitch by telling the police of what she knows. My impression is that she will try and make you marry Zara by threatening to give you away unless you come up to the scratch."
"I shan't come up to the scratch, then," muttered Hench sullenly.
"In that case Madame Alpenny will have the game in her own hands."
"She won't, Jim, if I can prove her guilty."
"That won't be an easy job," said Vane doubtfully. "The woman is as cunning as a fox, and as dangerous as a tigress. Besides, we can't be sure that she did get rid of your uncle. Anyhow,"--the barrister rose to stretch himself,--"I advise you to make friends with Mammon by telling Gwen who you are, and getting over the trouble before Madame Alpenny turns up to put her fingers in the pie. She intends to do that, you know."
"She'll burn her fingers, then."