“Do you mean to insinuate?—” she began fiercely.
“No, of course not. I only insinuate that you took advantage of his sudden death, and of the fact that communication with Guernsey was cut off at that time, to work this deceit. The story runs that Miss Ford’s body in its coffin was carried away at the upsetting of the boat which was to take it across to Guernsey. Is it of any use to ask you the truth underlying that fiction?”
“Your uncle lies buried in the wood outside the château,” said Miss Ford, simply. “I did all the work myself; the Vazons may know where he lies, but nobody else does. I cut a cross in the bark of a beech tree near the head of the grave.”
Cunning as the woman was, adept at deceit as she was, Bayre saw no reason to doubt the truth of this account, which he indeed subsequently verified. There remained the matter of the will.
“I suppose,” he said, “that if my uncle had left the château to you for life you would never have done this extraordinary thing?”
She shot at him a suspicious look.
“We need not discuss that,” she said. “I have enjoyed the château for my life, and it will belong to his son when he is of age. The matter, after all, does not interest you.”
“Supposing,” suggested Bayre, “that I had been mentioned in the will? Supposing I had been appointed guardian of the child and custodian of my uncle’s collection?”
The old face looked livid in the shadow.
“We needn’t waste time supposing things,” she said presently. “The will has been destroyed.”