"It was necessary that I should go there to search out your husband's past life. In that past I fancied, might be found the motive for the commission of the crime."
"I could have saved you the journey," said Mrs. Krill, shrugging her plump shoulders. "I can tell you what you wish to know."
"In that case I will relate all that I have learned, and perhaps you will correct me if I am wrong."
Mrs. Krill bowed but did not commit herself to speech. For the sake of effect the detective took out a sheaf of notes, but in reality he had the various points of the case at his finger tips. "You will excuse me if I talk on very private matters," he said, apologetically, "but as we are alone," again Mrs. Krill glanced at the curtain and thereby confirmed Hurd's suspicions of an unseen listener, "you will not mind my being, perhaps, personal."
"Personal," echoed Mrs. Krill, a keen look coming into her hard eyes, and she stopped rubbing her hands together.
"Well, yes," admitted Hurd, with affected reluctance. "I had to look into your past as well as into that of your husband's."
Mrs. Krill's eyes grew harder than ever. She scented danger. "My past is a most uninteresting one," she said, coldly. "I was born at Stowley, in Buckinghamshire, and married Mr. Krill at Beechill, which is a few miles from that town. He was a traveller in jewellery, but as I did not like his being away from me, I induced him to rent 'The Red Pig' at Christchurch, to which we removed. Then he left me—"
"On account of Lady Rachel Sandal's murder?"
Mrs. Krill controlled herself excellently, although she was startled by this speech, as was evident from the expression of her eyes. "That poor lady committed suicide," she said deliberately. "The jury at the inquest brought in a verdict of suicide—"
"By a majority of one," added Hurd, quickly. "There seemed to be a considerable amount of doubt as to the cause of the death."