Leonard uttered an ejaculation. It seemed to him that he was pursued by the Amelia Square tragedy. First Dorothy, and now her mother. Was there no other topic of conversation? He would have answered an ordinary person rudely, being wearied of being questioned, but Mrs. Ward, having the key of the door which led into the fashionable world, was to be conciliated. He replied to her almost in the same words as he had used to Dorothy. "Mr. Brendon did stop with me," he said, "but we were asleep when the murder took place."
"How extraordinary!" said Mrs. Ward, languidly, yet with a keen eye on the change in Leonard's face. "I wonder who killed her?"
"No one knows," replied Train, shortly.
"Does no one suspect any one?"
"I believe not. The police are quite at fault."
"Oh, the police!" said Mrs. Ward, in a proper tone of contempt. "They never do anything except make love to cooks. Do you suspect any one?"
Leonard flushed. "I, Mrs. Ward? Why should I suspect any one?"
"Oh, I don't know. You have a clever face. Just the kind of a face that one would think a brilliant detective would have. You must have some suspicions?" Again her eyes searched his face.
"No," he protested. "I was asleep. I know nothing about the matter."
"How stupid of you!" said Mrs. Ward, beginning to think that her condescension in asking Leonard to dinner was wasted. "But you men are always so blind, poor dears! What kind of a woman was Mrs. Jersey?"