But though she verbally evaded the point, the tone in which she spoke was sufficient to betray her private views on the subject. Then with intense bitterness mingled with a certain malicious joy, she added:
“She got what she deserved in the end. I don't pretend I'm sorry. I think they were both well served.”
Then her temper, which hitherto she had kept under control, broke from restraint:
“I don't care who knows it! They deserved all they got, both of them. What business had she—with a husband of her own—to come and lure him away? She made him break off his engagement to me simply to gratify her own vanity. You don't expect me to shed tears over them after that? One can forgive a good deal, but there's no use making a pretence in things like that. She hit me as hard as she could, and I'm glad she's got her deserts. I warned him at the time that he wouldn't come off so well as he thought; and he laughed in my face when I said it. Well, it's my turn to laugh. The account's even.”
And she actually did laugh, with a catch of hysteria in the laughter. It needed no great skill in psychology to see that wounded pride shared with disappointed passion in causing this outbreak.
Sir Clinton checked the hysteria before it gained complete hold over her.
“I'm afraid you haven't told us anything that was new to us, Miss Hailsham,” he said, frigidly. “This melodramatic business gets us no further forward.”
The girl looked at him with hard eyes.
“What help do you expect from me?” she demanded. “I'm not anxious to see him avenged—far from it.”
Sir Clinton evidently realised that nothing was to be gained by pursuing that line of inquiry. Whether the girl had any suspicions or not, she certainly did not intend to supply information which might lead to the capture of the murderer. The Chief Constable waited until she had become calmer before putting his next question: