“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known to murder men who held secrets.”
“Secrets!” she exclaimed.
“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. “Look here—this way it is. The theory that people—some people—will build up (I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested itself to me) is this:—There’s some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty odd years ago. Must be. There’s some mystery about your father’s life, twenty odd years ago. Must be—or else he’d have answered those questions. Very well. ‘Ha, ha!’ says the general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says the general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up. Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?”
“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed.
“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say it, in more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?”
For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new interest in what remained of the tea-cakes.
“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” she asked, quietly.
“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m going to sit on the fence tonight. Besides, the case is sub judice. All I’m going to do is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest.”
The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on Spargo’s big fist.
“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice.