"Precisely. And I don't want to say anything until I'm sure, can come out with everything all clear and proved. That's where I expect you to help, put things together, find out, work up the case."
"Who is the person?"
Her color burned to a deep flush; she leaned toward him, urgent, almost pleading:
"Mr. Larkin, I hardly like to say it even to you, but I must. It's my mother's secretary, Miss Maitland."
He looked stolidly unmoved:
"She lives in the house?"
"Yes, for over a year now. My mother thinks everything of her, wouldn't believe it unless it was proved past a doubt."
"What are your reasons for suspecting her?"
Suzanne was silent for a moment moving her glance from him to the window. Mr. Larkin had a good chance to look at her and took it. He noticed the feverish color, the line between the brows, the tightened muscles under the thin cheeks. He made a mental note of the fact that she was agitated.
"Well that night, the night of July the seventh," she said in a low voice, "I was wakeful. I often am, I've always been a nervous, restless sort of person. About half past one I thought I heard a noise—some one on the stairs—and I got up and looked out of my door. I can see the head of the stairs from there, and as it was very bright moonlight any one coming up would be perfectly plain—I couldn't make a mistake—what I saw was Miss Maitland. She was going very carefully, tiptoeing along as if she was trying to make no noise. At the top she turned and went down the passage to her own room which is just beyond my mother's."