“I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.”
Mrs. Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French.
“It has been discovered that Mr. Pyke was not lost on the moor as was supposed. Of Mr. Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Pyke was murdered.”
“Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!” Horror showed on the lady’s face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for details.
French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.
“I’m afraid it must be true,” she said, sadly, when he had finished. “I remember that birthmark, too. We were children together, the Pykes and I, and I have often seen it. Oh, I can’t say how sorry I am! Who could have done such a terrible thing? Stanley was so jolly and pleasant and kind. He was good to everyone and everyone liked him. Oh, it is too awful for words!”
French made a noncommittal reply.
“But what about my late husband?” Mrs. Berlyn went on. “You said nothing had been learnt about him. But—if they were together——?”
She paused suddenly, as if seeing that a meaning which she had not intended might be read into her words. But French replied, soothingly:
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Berlyn. Did you know if either he or Mr. Pyke had any enemies? You need not fear to tell me the merest suspicions. I will act only on knowledge that I obtain, but your suspicion might suggest where to look for that knowledge.”