“I’ve told you who my guests were,” said Mrs. Tretheroe. “Of course, the mere idea that any of them went to the Sceptre at that time of night is ridiculous. No—the meeting at the Sceptre amounts to nothing. You concentrate on Harborough—he did it! He was always a man of mad, unreasonable, ungovernable temper, or perhaps I might have married him, once.”
Blick said nothing in reply to this. He rose to go, and Mrs. Tretheroe, with another approving look, gave him her hand.
“Come and see me again—to tell me how you’re getting on,” she said. “Of course, I’m awfully interested!”
Blick made his way downstairs. The door of the drawing-room was still open, and the Baron von Eckhardstein was still softly singing sentimental ditties. At the foot of the staircase the maid suddenly appeared, and smiled. Blick smiled back.
“I haven’t made your mistress’s headache any worse,” he remarked.
“The headache’s too much cigarette smoking,” she whispered, with a look. “I say!”
“What?” asked Blick, whispering too.
“Has anything—been found out?” she asked.
“What, yet? No!—too early,” answered Blick. “Why—do you know anything?”
“I? Good Heavens, no! Merely curious! being a woman.”