She arose and started resolutely toward the door. As she neared it, she faltered, and then turned back to him.
“Davenport, I have just had a most disturbing thought. It also may have occurred to you. Derrol Steele was a trusted and familiar guest in this house. He heard many important,—let me go on, please,—I can see revulsion in your eyes. Whether we like it or not, we must look at it squarely from every point of view. Last night, for example, he heard the Admiral; he heard what the Countess had to say about the Italian situation. Going farther back, you yourself spoke in his presence of the sailing of the Elston with all those men on board.”
“I see what is in your mind, Frieda,” he said slowly. “You mean we may be dragged into it?”
“Not at all,” she said rather sharply. “We need not be drawn into it in the slightest degree unless we volunteer information that concerns no one but ourselves. Why should any one know that he came into possession of facts here in our home?”
“Such things are bound to leak out, my dear. The investigation will be thorough. They will go to the bottom of this. Of course, I can manage it so that we sha'n't come in for any publicity, but we can't escape questioning.”
“And are we to admit that we discussed these very grave and important matters in his presence?”
“We are to tell the truth, Frieda. You should not forget that we spoke of them in the presence of an officer in the United States Army.”
After a moment she said: “I daresay you are right, Davenport. You are always right. I was only thinking that in view of the fact that there is no proof against him except the few words overheard by that man in front of the café,—well, it is possible, don't you see, that there may have been some horrid, appalling mistake. They have no other proof,—unless the United States Attorney withheld something from you.”
“They have the best proof in the world. He shot himself, as you have said.”
She half closed her eyes. A queer little spasm twisted her lips apart.