"All right! We'll see about that!" he said with a furious nod of menace. Furneaux chuckled; and now by a simultaneous impulse they walked apart, Furneaux whistling, in Winter a whirlwind of passion blowing the last shreds of pity from his soul.
He was soon sitting at the bedside of Pauline Dessaulx, now convalescent, though the coming of this strange man threw her afresh into a tumult of agitation. But Winter comforted her, smoothed her hand, assured her that there was no cause for alarm.
"I know that you took Mademoiselle de Bercy's diary," he said to her, "and it was very wrong of you not to give it up to the police, and to hide yourself as you did when your evidence was wanted. But, don't be frightened—I am here to-night to see if you can throw any light on the sad disappearance of Miss Marsh. The suspense is killing her mother, and I feel sure that it has some connection with the Feldisham Mansions affair. Now, can you help me? Think—tell me."
"Oh, I cannot!" She wrung her hands in a paroxysm of distress—"If I could, I would. I cannot imagine——!"
"Well, then, that part of my inquiry is ended. Only, listen to this attentively. I want to ask you one other question: Why did you leave the Exhibition early on the night of the murder, and where did you go to?"
"I—I—I, sir!" she said, pointing to her guiltless breast with a gaping mouth; "I, poor me, I left——?"
"Oh, come now, don't delude yourself that the police are fools. You went to the Exhibition with the cook, Hester Se——"
"And she has said such a thing of me? She has declared that I left——?"
"Yes, she has. Why trouble to deny it? You did leave—By the way, have you a brother or any other relative in London——?"
"I—I, sir! A brother? Ah, mon Dieu! Oh, but, sir——!"