CHAPTER XVI
FOXEY
The keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do him good.
As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s change of attitude the less he understood it.
“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have endless trouble at getting at the truth. She will not be candid. She will only tell me that which she thinks will help him, and conceal that which she considers damaging. That is a woman’s way, all the world over. And a desperately annoying way it is. Perhaps I was to blame in springing this business too hastily upon her. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”
A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recognized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke’s ticket on that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.
Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into conversation with the official.
“Do you remember me?” he said.