“Did he ever go to see her in her own house?”
Again the mute negative.
“So they used to meet here, in your flat, in secret?”
“It was not my wish,” Cacciola muttered, his distress increasing under interrogation.
“And they were engaged in some Russian plot. Were there any others in it? Who made this their meeting place?”
“I do not——”
Cacciola’s faltering denial was cut short, for Melikoff sprang to his feet and confronted Snell, who also rose.
“Enough!” cried the Russian. “The maestro is right—he does not know! And there was—there is—no plot as you call it, save that she and I, like many others of our race, were always waiting and watching, and hoping for some means of serving our unhappy country. Also, we loved each other—yes! But I swear to you it was love without one taint of dishonour to her, to me, to that old man, her husband!”
Was he speaking the truth in this respect? Snell, with his wide knowledge of poor human nature, and mentally comparing this handsome, passionate, emotional youth with Sir Robert—old, formal, pompous!—greatly doubted it.
But the point did not interest him except as it might afford some clue to the mystery. It was not his job to make inquisition into anyone’s morals.