"No one could suspect you, madam, of having made away with him," observed Mr. Torrens.
"No—but I should be overwhelmed with the most embarrassing questions," exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby hastily. "And, do you know, that remark of your's has inspired me with horror and alarm? No one would suspect me of having made away with him! Of course not:—how could a weak woman assassinate a man in the streets of London, and not leave a trace of the dreadful deed behind? But might not inquiries be made—might it not be discovered that Sir Henry and myself were frequent visitors—I must speak candidly to you—to a house of ill-fame? And then—oh then! what a dreadful exposure would take place!"
"You are torturing yourself with vain apprehensions, Mrs. Slingsby," said Mr. Torrens, experiencing the greatest difficulty to conceal his own agitation.
"I should have thought that you, Mr. Torrens, would have assisted me with your advice—considering how we have been involved in the same transaction—rather than treat my fears with levity," said Mrs. Slingsby, in an excited manner. "And, if I tell you the candid truth," she added, fixing her eyes upon his countenance in a way which seemed intended to read the inmost secrets of his soul, "I must declare my conviction that you know more of the cause of the baronet's disappearance than you choose to admit."
"I—madam!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, shrinking from the accusation in spite of himself.
"Yes—you," returned the lady, growing more and more excited: "and that suspicion which I hazarded, I scarcely know why, is now confirmed by your manner. I again say, yes—you know more of the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance than you are willing to admit. I am convinced that he did visit you last night—and if he never came back, what account will you give?—what explanation will you render? Your anxiety in coming after me just now,—the singularity of your remark that no one would suspect me of foul play towards the baronet,—and your trepidation when I named the suspicion which had flashed to my mind concerning you,—all these circumstances convince me that you are no stranger to the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance."
"Madam—this outrageous charge—implying a crime of which I am utterly incapable——" began Mr. Torrens, scarcely knowing how to meet the accusation, and seriously inclined to divulge the whole truth.
"I do not say that you have murdered Sir Henry Courtenay," interrupted Mrs Slingsby, speaking in a low tone, and giving a strong, hollow emphasis to that dreadful word which few can breathe without a shudder: "but that some quarrel may have taken place between you—that you were compelled to appear violent and vindictive in respect to him, your daughter perhaps being present—and that all this led to a fatal issue, are things which now seem to form a complete and connected train of horrible impressions in my mind. At all events, Mr. Torrens," she added, sinking her voice to a low whisper, "be candid with me—tell me the whole truth—and we will consult together, circumstances having already rendered us colleagues in one transaction."
"I have nothing to tell you, Mrs. Slingsby, in respect to this business," said Mr. Torrens; "and I am as astonished at Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance as yourself."
"Then, if I were questioned," observed the lady, "you would have no objection to my saying that I parted last night from Sir Henry Courtenay near St. James's Church, Piccadilly, his last words being to the effect that he was about to call at Torrens Cottage on particular business?"