“I’m game for that anyhow, if it doesn’t hurt her.” He jerked his head towards the room where Miss Grison was supposed to be.
Fuller turned on him sharply. “Why should anything hurt her?” he inquired.
Jotty did not answer directly. “She’s bin good t’ me, and he wos good—him es died, sir. I don’t want no hurt t’ come t’ her anyhow,” and with a flash of his light eyes the boy sprang down the stairs leading to the kitchen, while Alan entered the drawing-room wondering what the observation meant. It seemed impossible that any harm could come to Miss Grison out of any inquiry into the death of her brother. Again it struck Fuller that the woman’s reason for helping Jotty might not be entirely philanthropic.
However he had no time to dwell on this particular point, but looked about for Miss Grison, who was not to be seen. An elderly lady with a simper informed him that the landlady was in her own room, and pointed out the direction, so Fuller knocked at the door softly. The sharp voice of Miss Grison invited him to enter, and he found himself in a small apartment crowded with furniture.
“Oh, here you are, Mr. Fuller,” said his hostess, rising from a low chair in which she was seated by the fire. “I thought you would find me here. I cannot stay listening to the twaddle they talk in the drawing-room, having much more serious things with which to occupy my thoughts.”
“Very natural, after your great loss,” replied Alan, accepting the chair she pushed towards him. “I suppose you wonder why I have come to see you.”
“No,” said Miss Grison in her sharp, blunt way. “You mentioned at Belstone that you would help me, and I am glad to have your assistance.”
“I can give it, if you will be frank with me.”
“What do you wish to know?” Miss Grison took a fan from the mantelpiece as she spoke, and used it to screen her sallow cheeks from the fire.
“Have you any idea who murdered your brother?”