“Ah!” he said. “When you came in, I was just getting to some such conclusion myself! If he was that man, then that accounts for something else. But—supposing he was—you were going to say.”
“I was going to say that in that case, it looks as if he and Guy Markenmore had been mixed up in business matters,” replied Harborough. “And if so, business matters—some big money deal—may be at the bottom of this. For instance, somebody may have wanted to get rid of both of ’em? Heard of cases of that sort myself—not in this country, though.”
“It may be, it may be!” assented Mr. Fransemmery. “The whole thing is a mystery which seems difficult of solution, and——”
What more Mr. Fransemmery was going to say was never said. At that moment the door opened, the trim parlour-maid murmured something indistinctly, stepped aside, vanished, and gave place to Valencia Markenmore, who came into the room so rapidly that she failed to see Harborough, whose tall figure was hidden from her by a screen.
“Oh, Mr. Fransemmery!” she exclaimed, as she entered. “Do forgive me for rushing in on you so unceremoniously, but I’m in an awful lot of trouble, and I want your help, and—oh!”
She had rounded the screen by that time, and had caught sight of Harborough. Harborough got to his feet, looking uncertain and awkward.
“I’ll go!” he said.
“No, indeed!” protested Valencia. “Not a bit of it—I’d—I’d just as soon tell you as Mr. Fransemmery—I’ll tell you both. You’re men—you’ll know what to do.”
Mr. Fransemmery signed to Harborough to stay where he was and drew a chair forward to the hearth.
“What is it, my dear?” he enquired, as Valencia seated herself. “Anything that we can do, I am quite sure will be done—if it’s within our power.”