Ronald looked at him in amazement.
"What is beautifully arranged?" he asked, shortly.
"The plot."
"Plot--what plot?"
Foster arose from his chair, and walked slowly to and fro with his hands behind his back.
"I tell you what, my boy," he said, rapidly, "this thing is becoming more mysterious with every fresh discovery. Verschoyle had no enemy, as far as we know, but his wife; we have documentary evidence saying she intended to murder him, and he was murdered at the very place where she was staying. Roper says she did not leave the house. Vassalla says she was not on board. Her own letter says she was confined to her room with a headache. Fudge! I don't believe any one of them."
"Then you think she was on board?" asked Ronald, eagerly.
"I'm certain of it. I ask you, as a logical man, whether a jealous woman like Mrs. Verschoyle, knowing her husband was on board the 'Neptune,' could resist the temptation of seeing him? Nonsense! I tell you she was on board, and if Vassalla says she was not, he has a reason."
"What reason can he have?"
"He wants to shield her from the consequences of her crime. He is her cousin, and blood is thicker than water."