“Surely there was some motive?”
“You are speaking in enigmas. I heard of the girl from you. I have never seen her. If your mother interfered, it was for your good.”
He smiled cynically. The cold, far-away look in his eyes was bitter to her soul, yet he had never looked so handsome, so distinguished, as in this moment when he was ruthlessly telling her that another woman absorbed him utterly.
“What hold has Meiklejohn over you?” he went on.
She simulated tears. “You have no right to address me in that manner,” she protested.
“There is a guilty bond somewhere, and I shall find it out,” he said coldly. “My mother was your catspaw. You, Helen, may have been spiteful, but Meiklejohn—that sleek and smug politician—I cannot understand him. The story went that owing to an accidental likeness to Meiklejohn your husband was nearly killed. His assailant was a man named Voles. Voles was an associate of Rachel Craik, the woman who poses as Winifred’s aunt. That is the line of inquiry. Do you know anything about it?”
“Not a syllable.”
“Then I must appeal to Ronald.”
“Do so. He is as much in the dark as I am.”
“I fancy you are speaking the truth, Helen.”