Austin nodded, wondering what was coming. Somewhat to his surprise, Thomson had been present at the interview yesterday, at Sir Robert’s own request, standing silently behind his master’s chair.
“It’s about Mr. Carling, sir. I can’t think why the police should have arrested him of all people in the world—such a nice young gentleman as he is. He had no more to do with my lady’s death than you had!”
“Of course he hadn’t. But, see here, Thomson, do you know anything of his movements that morning?”
“Nothing at all, sir, beyond what every one else knows, or will know soon. But how anybody acquainted with him can believe it for a minute beats me—my master most of all. I have presumed to speak to him about it—I’ve been with Sir Robert many years, sir—but he wouldn’t hear a word, even from me. He says Mr. Carling followed and murdered my lady so as to get those papers back; he told the police so!”
“I don’t believe the papers had anything to do with it.”
Thomson, who was sitting forward on the edge of the seat, his black-gloved hands resting on his knees, turned his head slowly and looked at Austin sideways, for the first time during the colloquy.
“Nor I, sir. I hold that it was a thief, who got rid of the papers as soon as possible.”
“It might have been a vendetta!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, a what?”