“I’m not Mr. Harborough’s solicitor,” he said, “but if I were, I should strongly advise him not to answer that question, Chief Constable. You know.”
“This isn’t a court of law,” retorted the Chief Constable. “It’s a private conversation between gentlemen. As Mrs. Tretheroe said what she did before us, Mr. Harborough has the right to say his say—before us.”
“I will say!” exclaimed Harborough suddenly. “I did make such a threat—years ago. It was made under great provocation—the greatest provocation. But—all that’s died out, long since—I mean the feeling of anger—and so on—has died out in me. If I’d met Guy Markenmore, now—or any time these last four or five years—I’d have shaken hands with him.”
“Good!” said the Chief Constable. He pointed to Harry, and looked at Harborough. “For his—and his sister’s—satisfaction,” he went on, “tell me—when did you last see Guy Markenmore?”
Harborough, too, looked at Harry. And as he looked, Valencia came back into the room. He turned towards her.
“I’ll tell you,” he said quietly. “I’ve never set eyes on Guy Markenmore for seven years. I know nothing whatever of the circumstances of his death—nothing!”
The Chief Constable nodded; the other men made no remark. But Valencia looked at Harborough steadily for a moment; he, too, looked at her; it seemed to Mr. Fransemmery’s keenly watchful eyes that a glance of intelligence passed between them. Then she went up to her brother, tapped him on the arm, and turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t there things to be done?—preparations to make?” she asked. “Will you tell me about them?”
The Chief Constable went off with the brother and sister; Harborough went away, too, without further word; Chilford and Mr. Fransemmery were left alone. Presently they walked out on the terrace, and began to pace up and down, at first in silence.
“I imagine,” said Mr. Fransemmery at last, “that what we heard just now from Mrs. Tretheroe originally arose out of some early love-affair? I suppose Harborough and Guy Markenmore were rivals, eh?”