“Do you know any of their Russian friends, Miss Cacciola?” asked Austin.
She shook her head.
“They used to come and go like shadows, seeing only Boris, and whoever might chance to admit them when he did not—Giulia or my uncle usually. She—Paula—actually had a key, and could let herself into this, our home, if you please, whenever she liked. I was always furious about it, as was Giulia, and my uncle did not like it. He should have forbidden it, as I told him a hundred times.”
“She had a key!” exclaimed Austin. “Did she use it that last time she was here?”
“I do not know. Why do you ask?”
“Because if she did it ought to have been found either in her purse or her bag, and certainly it was not there.”
“That is curious,” said Maddelena reflectively. “I will find out from Giulia to-morrow; she is in bed now. You think that is of importance?”
“Every little thing is of importance. See, here, Miss Cacciola——”
“Well?” she asked, her bright eyes fixed inquiringly upon him, as he hesitated, wondering if, and how far, he should confide in her. Cacciola still remained silent but was listening intently.
“It’s this way,” Austin resumed slowly, weighing each word before he spoke. “Roger Carling is innocent. A good few of us—every one who really knows him, in fact, except Sir Robert Rawson himself—are convinced of that, although appearances are so terribly against him.”