"Oh, Paul, do you think she knows anything about the murder?"
"No, dear. I don't think that. Mrs. Krill is far too clever a woman to put her neck in danger. But there may be a chance of her daughter losing the money. Sylvia," he asked, "you saw Maud Krill. How old would you take her to be?"
"Oh, quite old, Paul," said Sylvia, decisively; "she dresses well and paints her face; but she's forty."
"Oh, Sylvia, not so much as that."
"Well, then, thirty and over," insisted Sylvia. "Debby thinks the same as I do."
"Don't you think Debby's zeal may lead her to exaggerate?"
"It doesn't lead me to exaggerate," said Sylvia, slightly offended; "and I have eyes in my head as well as Debby. That girl, or that woman, I should say, is over thirty, Paul."
"In that case," said Beecot, his color rising, "I fancy I see the reason of Mrs. Krill's desire to get you out of the country. Maud," he added deliberately, "may not be your father's daughter after all."
"What makes you think that?"
"Well. According to the marriage certificate, and to Mrs. Krill's admission, she was married to your father thirty years ago. If Maud is over thirty—can't you see, Sylvia?"