The unhappy young man's glance wandered out of the door to see Rosalind and her mother go past towards a waiting cab. He cared not a jot if all Scotland Yard were dogging his footsteps now.
"Is that so, sir?" asked Winter of Furneaux.
"Exactly as Mr. Glyn says," answered Furneaux, looking at them furtively, and darting one very curious glance at Winter's face.
"And who, Mr.—Glyn, was about the place whom you could possibly suspect of having placed this object in your bag—someone with a wicked motive for throwing suspicion upon you?"
Winter's lips whitened and dwelt with venom upon the word "wicked."
"There was absolutely no one," answered Osborne. "The hotel was rather empty. Of course, there was this gentleman——"
"Yes," said Winter after him, "this gentleman."
"An elderly lady, a Mrs. Forbes, I believe, as I happened to read her name, a foreigner who probably never saw me before, an invalid girl and her sister—all absolutely unconnected with me."
Furneaux's eyes were now glued on Winter's face. They seemed to have a queer meaning in them, a meaning not wholly devoid of spite and malice.
"Well, Mr.—Glyn," said Winter, "let me tell you, if you do not know, that this bit of lace was certainly part of the dress in which Miss de Bercy was murdered. Therefore the man—or woman—who put it into your bag was there—on the spot—when the deed was done."