“I too, since I watched him in the court to-day,” she murmured.
“I know. The maestro told me so just before you came in. Now we’ve got to find out the truth, to trace the murderer, before the trial comes on, and we’ve only a very few weeks to do it in. It’s no use going to the police, unless and until we’ve got something definite to put them on. They think the case is clear and their duty done.”
“But you—there is something in your mind?”
“There is, but I don’t quite know how to explain it. I believe this Russian business may provide the clue, and that you can help to find it. Just suppose there was one of them who had a personal grudge against her—or even a spy in their councils, for there always is a spy, sure, in these intrigues.”
“Or someone who wanted to separate her from Boris,” said Maddelena dryly, and he was thankful that she was now gazing at the fire and not at him. “Well, I and my uncle wanted to do that. He is sorry the separation has been brought about with such tragedy, but I—I care not how it came about so that it did come. I wonder you did not suspect me, Mr. Starr!”
She turned and looked at him again, a sort of challenge in her eyes, which he met squarely.
“Maddelena!” exclaimed Cacciola, glancing from one to the other, but neither heeded him at the moment.
“Perhaps I did till I met you,” Austin answered. “I don’t now, or I shouldn’t have asked your help.”
“Good! I like an honest man, and that is very honest, Mr. Starr. I also will be honest. I did not murder Paula Rawson, though there have been many times when I would have done so if I could. And I tell you that if I knew who did I would do all in my power to shield him.”
“But not if an innocent man should suffer in his place,” he urged. “Miss Cacciola, I implore you if you know anything—even if you suspect anything or anyone——”