“Was it to ask about my health that you came?”
“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven’t seen you for quite a while, and as we are both interested in the same matter I thought I would look you up and compare notes.”
Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investigation in future. But there was a second picture before his eyes. He saw Phyllis Browne’s face, not as it was that day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the light of happiness in it, with the joyousness of requited and undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the tremulous smile of innocent pleasure.
It was hard to believe that such a woman could place her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of his analytical senses.
Mr. White meanwhile flattered himself by the thought that the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking at him fixedly.
“I have been away from home,” said Bruce at last. “I had occasion to go to the South of France.”
“I thought so. I was sure of it. How do you manage always to get ahead of us?” Mr. White was enthusiastic in his admiring divination.
“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett?” said the barrister, still keeping that inscrutable, calculating gaze upon the policeman.
“Yes. I am on his track. We may be slow, but we are sure in Scotland Yard. May I ask what luck you have had, sir?”
“In what respect?”