"I know as much as a report of the Kirkstone murder could tell me: and as much as Prain the solicitor knows."
"You know Mr. Prain?"
"Yes! I was with him yesterday. But I'll learn no good from this desultory conversation, Miss Wedderburn. Please take me indoors and we can discuss the matter quietly. I am the detective in charge of the case, so you need have no hesitation in telling me all you know."
"I know nothing!" cried Edith, vehemently, "nothing!"
"It is for me to judge of that," retorted Gebb, dryly.
The keen look he gave her, and the significance of his tone and words, seemed to startle the girl. She glanced defiantly at his watchful face, and strove to match his gaze with a steady look of her own; but whether from fear or modesty, her eyes fell, and she turned away to obey his request and lead him within doors. Gebb followed her in silence along the terrace and round the corner of the house, until they both paused before an open French window which led into a pleasant, sunny apartment of no great size. Before entering, Edith, who had evidently been considering his last speech, turned to excuse herself.
"Mr. Gebb," she said, with an air of great dignity, "your words seem to imply that I know more than I dare tell. I assure you that such a suspicion is unjust and unfounded. The intelligence of Miss Gilmar's death is terrible and unexpected to me; and any aid I can give you to bring the assassin to justice you shall have. Whatever questions you ask me I will answer; whatever you desire to see in this house I will show you; but in justice to myself, I must ask you not to credit me with guilty knowledge."
"My dear young lady, I am the last person in the world to do so," said Gebb, quickly. "I do not for a moment suppose that you know anything of your cousin's unhappy death. I disclaim the sentiments with which you credit me; and I must admit that there is no necessity for you to exculpate yourself as you are doing."
"I am not exculpating myself in the least," rejoined Miss Wedderburn, coldly, "but you detectives seem to be so suspicious that you see ill where none exists."
Gebb laughed. "You have been reading detective novels," said he, indulgently; "believe me, we detectives are not so black as the novelists paint us. But, as I said before, this desultory conversation is not useful. I would rather see the Yellow Boudoir."