The warm blood had suffused her cheeks. She had risen from her seat, unable at first to comprehend the full meaning of it all. "I cannot understand," she exclaimed.
"You will presently. Now, if you don't mind, sit down quietly, and tell me in your own way exactly what happened on the night this man was killed. Take your own time. I shall not interrupt."
A lurking fear at the back of the girl's mind that he was trying by some subtle means to entrap her into an admission that would implicate Grell disappeared. He dropped his pen. She searched the square face, but could see nothing behind the mask of smiling good-nature. Her own curiosity was alight, but she sternly suppressed it.
"You know about the letter?" she asked. "The letter I got from Goldenburg."
He shook his head. "Assume that I know nothing. Begin at the beginning."
"Well, that was the beginning. I did not know it was from Goldenburg then, for it was unsigned, and both the address and the note itself were in typewriting. It was delivered by an express messenger. It said that the writer had something of importance affecting my future happiness to say to me, and that I could learn what it was by calling at Mr. Grell's house about ten. The writer advised me to keep my visit as secret as possible."
"Ah! What time did you get the note?"
"I am not quite sure. It was about half-past nine or quarter to ten."
"Very neatly timed to prevent you making inquiries beforehand. Go on."