Crewe’s glance followed the turn of her head; he lit the candle with his expiring match. The candle flickered, then burnt brightly, and the detective saw that he was in a small storeroom with shelves lining the walls. He turned again to Mrs. Penfield who was watching him closely.
“Why did you alarm him?” he asked. “You think it was Brett?”
Although his tone was one of curiosity rather than anger, the woman threw her arms out at full length as though she feared he would attempt to drag her away from the door.
“Do not be afraid,” said Crewe. “You have nothing to fear from me. And, as for him, it is too late to pursue him.”
“I must give him ample time to make his escape,” she said. “You will go and tell the police he was here.”
“What makes you think it was Brett?” asked Crewe. “If he came back this way—if he hoaxed you with a telephone message in order to get you out of the house—he has shown a lamentable want of trust in you.”
“He knows he can trust me,” she said confidently. “He can never doubt it after to-night.”
“I cannot conceive why he should take the great risk of coming back,” he said meditatively.
“That means you would like to go up to his rooms and find out what he came for. But I forbid you. If you attempt to go upstairs, I will rouse the neighbourhood with the cry that there are burglars in the house.”
“I think you have more reason to be afraid of the police than I,” said Crewe. “However, I am in your hands. As far as I am concerned, you can have full credit for having saved him to-night.”