“Perhaps,” was Slade’s comment. He looked at her in a way that caused her to wonder whether he had noticed the pencilings in the dust, and she erased them with a quick sweep of her hand. “By the way,” he went on, “our conversation last night was interrupted by a—a certain person. Remember?”
Helen knew that the critical moment had come. She made a pretense of searching her memory.
“I was very tired,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “and I recall very little of what happened. I seem to remember, though, that a motor horn sounded while we were talking.”
“Yes, and then?” Slade bent eagerly forward.
Helen’s strained face indicated intense mental effort. “Then—— Isn’t it odd that I don’t seem able to remember a thing after that?”
“It is,” admitted Slade, and there was a subtle change in the quality of his voice. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory. Suddenly a man’s figure appeared in the doorway. You stared at him in a way signifying that you had seen him before. Then you spoke a name.”
“A name?” echoed Helen. “What name?”
“A name that has been on a great many lips of late—Mr. Shei’s.”
“Isn’t that strange?” murmured Helen. “I wonder what on earth made me mention that name. I suppose, though,” she added quickly, “that it was because Mr. Shei’s name had been in my mind off and on ever since that terrible occurrence in the Thelma Theater. Yes, that must be the reason.”
“The only reason, Miss Hardwick?”