“Mrs. Warburton,” he asked, slowly, “do you know who struck that blow?”
She trembled violently, and her face turned ashen white.
“I can’t tell! I don’t know!” she cried wildly. “It was a moment of confusion, but—it was not—oh, no, no, it was not Alan!”
Not a little surprised at this incoherent outburst, Stanhope looked her keenly in the face, a new thought taking possession of his mind.
Could it be that she, in the desperation of the moment, in her struggle for safety, had stricken that cruel blow? Such things had been. Women as frail, in the strength born of desperation, had wielded still more savage weapons with fatal effect.
The question, who killed Josef Siebel? was becoming a riddle.
“Let that subject drop,” said Stanhope, withdrawing his eyes from her face. “Tell your brother-in-law of his danger, but do not make use of my name. He knows nothing about me. For yourself, obey no summons like this you have just received. You need not make use of my newspaper-telegraph now. What I saw this morning, showed me the necessity for instant action. There is one thing more: tell Alan Warburton that now, with Vernet’s eye upon him, there will be no safety in flight. Let him remain here, but tell him, above all, to shun interviews with strangers, be their errand what it will. Let no one approach him whom he does not know to be a friend. After your husband’s funeral, you too had better observe this same caution. Admit no strangers to your presence.”
“But you—”
“I shall not apply for admittance; I am going away. Before you see me again, I trust your troubles will have ended.”
“And little Daisy?”