Sir Hunter rose from his chair and paced agitatedly up and down the room. Marradine waited for him to calm down.
“I’ve got worse than that to tell you, I’m afraid,” he said. “We suspect that Sir Garth Fratten was murdered to prevent his joining your Board. So far we have no evidence pointing to either Wraile or Lessingham; we’ve only just begun to look for it. But we have evidence that your secretary, Miss Saverel, was employed to lure young Fratten into such a position that suspicion would fall on him. What do you know of her, Sir Hunter?”
Sir Hunter was past astonishment now, past indignation, even past anger. He had sunk back into the comfortable chair beside Sir Leward’s desk and was staring helplessly at his persecutor.
“I—I—nothing, really, nothing,” he stammered. “Wraile engaged her, soon after he came to us as manager. Charming girl—quiet, respectful, none of your modern sauce and legs. I—I don’t . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized that he was feebly repeating himself.
“You don’t remember, of course, anything about her movements, or Wraile’s, or even Lessingham’s, on the evening Sir Garth was murdered—” Sir Leward referred to a paper before him. “Thursday 24th, October, between 6 and 7.”
Lorne consulted his pocket-diary.
“Can’t say I do,” he replied gloomily. “I wasn’t at the office that afternoon.”
“Any particular reason why you weren’t there?”
“Matter of fact I was at Newbury—took Fernandez down—that Argentine millionaire, you know. He was over here floating a loan and we wanted to get in on it. We thought a little entertaining might do the trick—as a matter of fact it did—bread cast on the waters, what—bright idea really . . .” Sir Hunter suddenly checked himself, then, after a few moments’ thought, continued slowly: “It was Wraile’s idea.”
There was silence, both men evidently absorbed in their thoughts. Marradine was the first to speak.