She came to a halt in the road in order to put a direct question to him.
“Do you think that I had anything to do with this dreadful murder? Do you think that is the reason I asked you to keep my name out of it?”
“I am quite sure that you had nothing whatever to do with the tragedy—that the discovery of the man’s dead body was as great a surprise to you as it was to me.”
“Thank you,” she said. The emphasis of his declaration imparted a quiver to her expression of gratitude. “You are quite right about my expecting to see some one else when I opened the door,” she said. “I expected to see Mr. Lumsden.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I never thought of that.” He flushed at the way in which her simple explanation had convicted him of having harboured unjust suspicions against her.
“I went to the farm to see him—I had a message for him,” she continued, with seeming candour. “The storm came on just before I reached the house. I knocked, but no one came, and then I noticed the key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Naturally I thought Mr. Lumsden had left it there—that when he saw the storm he had gone to the stable or cowshed to attend to a horse or a cow. I went inside the house, expecting he would be back every moment. When I heard your knock I thought it was he.”
“I am afraid you must think me a dreadful boor,” he said. “I apologize most humbly.”
She replied with a breadth of view that in its contrast with his ungenerous suspicions added to his embarrassment.
“No, you were quite right,” she said. “As I asked you to keep my name out of it—as I virtually asked you to show blind trust in me—you were at least entitled to the fullest explanation of how I came to be there.”
“And I hope you quite understand that I do trust you absolutely,” he said. “I know as well as it is possible to know anything in this world that you were not connected in the remotest way with the death of this man.”