He left the room again, and Purdie looked at the governess. She, too, looked at him: there was a question in the eyes of both.
"What do you make of that?" asked Purdie after a pause.
"What do you make of it?" she asked in her turn.
"It looks odd—but there may be a reason for it," he answered. "Look here!—I'm going to ask you a question. What do you know of Mr. Levendale? You've been governess to his children for some time, haven't you?"
"For six months before he left Cape Town, and ever since we all came to England, three years ago," she answered. "I know that he's very rich, and a very busy man, and a member of Parliament, and that he goes to the City a great deal—and that's all! He's a very reserved man, too—of course, he never tells me anything. I've never had any conversation with him excepting about the children."
"You're upset about this book affair?" suggested Purdie.
"Why should Mr. Levendale say that he left that book in the omnibus, when I myself saw him leave the 'bus with it in his hand, and go down Praed Street with it?" she asked. "Doesn't it look as if he were the person who left it in that room—where the old man was found lying dead?"
"That, perhaps, is the very reason why he doesn't want people to know that he did leave it there," remarked Purdie, quietly. "There's more in all this than lies on the surface. You wanted my advice? Very well don't say anything to anybody till you see me again. I must go now—there's a man waiting for me at my hotel. I may call again, mayn't I?"
"Do!" she said, giving him her hand. "I am bothered about this—it's useless to deny it—and I've no one to talk to about it. Come—any time."
Purdie repressed a strong desire to stay longer, and to turn the conversation to more personal matters. But he was essentially a business man, and the matters of the moment seemed to be critical. So he promised to return, and then hurried back to his hotel—to find Melky Rubinstein pacing up and down outside the entrance.