“Could you not have given notice? Why was it necessary to create a further scandal in addition to the disappearance of your unfortunate mistress?”
“I am sorry for that. It was thoughtless, I admit. If I had to act over again I should have done differently. But what does it matter now?”
“It matters this much—that the police must be informed of your existence, as they are searching for you, believing that you are in some way mixed up with Lady Dyke’s death.”
The girl started violently, and she flushed, rather with anger than alarm, Bruce thought, as he watched her narrowly.
“The police, indeed,” she snorted; “what have the police to do with me? A nice thing you’re saying, Mr. Bruce.”
“I am merely telling you the naked truth.”
“All right. Tell them. I don’t care a pin for them or you. Have you anything else to say, because I wish to join my friends?”
The girl’s language and attitude mystified him more than any preceding feature of this remarkable investigation. She was, of course, far better educated than he had imagined, and the difference between the hysterical witness at the coroner’s inquiry and this pert, self-possessed young woman was phenomenal.
Rather than risk an open rupture, the barrister temporized. “If you are anxious to quarrel with me, by all means do so,” he said; “but that was not my motive in speaking to you here to-night.”
Miss le Marchant shot a suspicious glance at him. “Then what was your motive,” she said.