"Women are said to be the best judges in such matters, Inspector Furneaux."
"So, then, you will not be guided by me in this?" Furneaux said, standing up.
"No. Nevertheless, I thank you for your apparent good intent," answered Rosalind.
He was silent a little while, looking down at her. On her part, she did not move, and kept her eyes studiously averted.
"Then, for your sake, and to spite him, I accuse him to you of the murder!" he almost hissed.
She smiled.
"That is very wrong of you, very unlike an officer of the law. You know that he is quite innocent of it."
"Great, indeed, is your faith!" came the taunt. "Well, then," he added suddenly, "again for your sake, and again to spite him, I will even let you into a police secret. Hear it—listen to it—yesterday, with a search-warrant, I raided Mr. Osborne's private apartments. And this is what I found—at the bottom of a trunk a suit of clothes, the very clothes which the driver of the taxicab described as those of the man whom he took from Berkeley Street to Feldisham Mansions on the night of the murder. And those clothes, now in the possession of the police, are all speckled and spotted with blood. Come, Miss Marsh—what do you say now? Is your trust weakened?"
Furneaux's eyes sparkled with a glint of real hatred of Osborne, but Rosalind saw nothing of that. She rose, took an unsteady step or two, and stared through the window out into the street. Then she heard the door of the room being opened. She turned at once. Before a word could escape her lips, Furneaux was gone.
One minute later, she was scribbling with furious speed: