Of course she had given no name; it wouldn't be like her…. What was he thinking of, anyway? It could not have been the grey girl; for she knew him only as Anisty; she could never have thought him himself, Maitland…. But what other woman of his acquaintance did not believe him to be out of town?
With a hopeless gesture, Maitland gave it up, conceding the mystery too deep for him, his intellect too feeble to grapple with all its infinite ramifications. The counsel he had given O'Hagan seemed most appropriate to his present needs: One thing at a time. And obviously the first thing that lay to his hand was the silencing of O'Hagan.
Maitland rallied his wits to the task. "O'Hagan," said he, "this man, Snaith, who was here this afternoon, called himself a detective. As soon as we were alone he rapped me over the head with a loaded cane, and, I suspect, went through the flat stealing everything he could lay hands on…. Hand me my cigarette case, please."
"'Tis gone, sor—'tis not on the desk, at laste, pwhere I saw ut last."
"Ah! You see?… Now for reasons of my own, which I won't enter into, I don't want the affair to get out and become public. You understand? I want you to keep your mouth shut, until I give you permission to open it."
"Very good, sor." The janitor-valet had previous experiences with Maitland's generosity in grateful memory; and shut his lips tightly in promise of virtuous reticence.
"You won't regret it…. Now tell me what you mean by saying that you saw me go out at one this afternoon?"
Again the flood gates were lifted; from the deluge of explanations and protestations Maitland extracted the general drift of narrative. And in the end held up his hand for silence.
"I think I understand, now. You say he had changed to my grey suit?"
O'Hagan darted into the bedroom, whence he emerged with confirmation of his statement.