"Wasn't there some book he was going to set the Thames alight with? Has it been published?"
"No. It had some funny adventures; but not that one."
"You read it. Was it really good? Between ourselves, you know."
"Oh, I answer for it."
"Don't be in a hurry. It's not late. You knew Ingram better than most of us. Now, wasn't there something between him and the little girl we've been talking of? Perhaps you guessed I didn't mention her by accident. Didn't they come here together more than a year ago?"
I told him what I knew, including the boat-train incident.
"Isn't that Ingram all over?" he exclaimed. "If his eye or his friend or his ladylove offended him, one felt the axe would be out in a minute. You know what they're saying about her now?"
"About dancing the night her mother died? Why shouldn't she? If she'd been a shop-girl or a typist, no one would have thrown stones at her for going on with her work. They'd have thought the more of her for it."
"No, no, my dear boy. I mean the Darcher case—woman at Hampstead who poisoned herself and the little boy, you know. There was a mysterious lady came down in the car with Lumsden. Her name was kept out, but they say——"
"That it was she. Oh! impossible, Smeaton! How could it be?"