Mrs. Kenley blushed and withdrew a little along the seat. Then they whispered to each other and little Allport rose, said “Good night,” made a funny little grimace at me, and hurried off through the garage gates and into Dalehouse Lane. I was staggered.
Mrs. Kenley stood up, troubled, her gray eyes, full of concern, meeting mine unflinchingly.
“Has he been bothering you too then?” I thundered.
“Don’t make such a noise. I’ve something to tell you, Mr. Jeffcock,” she said, ignoring my question. “Come and sit down here where we shan’t be overheard.”
I went and sat by her side on the bench where only a moment before the ridiculous little man had sat, and I perceived that while she had sat close to him she kept her distance from me. All my original animosity against the conceited little detective returned.
Mrs. Kenley continued to look at me oddly. “I suppose you have guessed something about it?” she queried.
I stared at her. An idea was beginning to form at the back of my head, but it seemed altogether too fantastic. “You know Allport?” I ventured at length.
“He sent me here.”
“He sent you! No, I don’t quite—Mrs. Hanson——”
“Mrs. Hanson has never seen me. Listen, it’s like this. Mr. Allport wanted further evidence which could only be obtained by some one staying in the house—some one whom none of the rest of you could possibly suspect of having any connection with the police.”