“Is Mrs. Lindale, properly speaking, the wife of a Francis Aloysius Nenthall, living at Braidhurst?”
There was a short silence. Lindale gave no sign that the question had startled him, but walked on beside the Chief Inspector, his face a little grim, his eyes fixed on the ground before him.
“Her maiden name,” continued Hemingway, “having been Soulby, and the date of her marriage the 17 th October, 1942.”
Lindale looked up, a smouldering spark of anger in his eyes. “You could prove it so easily if I denied it, couldn't you?” he said bitterly. “Damn you! In the eyes of the law she is, but if Nenthall weren't a Catholic, and a cold-blooded bigot on top of that, she'd be mine!”
“I don't doubt you, sir.”
“How did you find this out?” demanded Lindale.
“We needn't go into that,” replied Hemingway. “What I want to know—”
“Yes, we dam' well need!” interrupted Lindale. “I've got a right to know who told you! Unless someone tipped you off, you can't have had the slightest reason for suspecting it, and I want to know who it was who went ferreting out my private affairs!”
“Well, you do know, don't you, sir?” said Hemingway.
“Warrenby?” Lindale said, staring at him with knitted brows. “I've reason to think he knew—God knows how!—but he can't have told you! Unless— Have you come upon some blasted enquiry agent's report amongst his papers?”