“Dmitri!” repeated Griffeth. “What do you mean? Dmitri is my friend. Who is dead?”
“Griffeth, do you remember”—Carlota lifted her head from his shoulder—“the young Bulgarian I told you always followed me? The one Dmitri recognized from the window here and told me I was never to fear him? This morning we heard from the old Marchese that a double murder had been committed next door to where Dmitri lived. No, please do not speak yet,” as he gave a startled exclamation. “One of the men was the Bulgarian boy, and they suspect Dmitri.”
“And you yourself, because you are his friend,” Maria added solemnly. “The Marchese assured us you would be arrested for complicity.”
“But why did you come here last night?”
Carlota hesitated, but Maria’s eyes were tender.
“Because I wanted you to help me,” she said slowly. “There was no one else to go to, and I was in trouble. Mr. Ward came to the apartment to buy my rubies and while he was there he was assaulted and robbed.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I fainted.” Carlota’s lashes drooped before his steady gaze. “And afterwards I was afraid to go back.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Maria’s hands fluttered out eagerly.