For the life of her, Rosalind could not conceal the surprise caused by this question. She even smothered her resentment in her eagerness.
"Mr. Osborne's typist, a woman named Hylda Prout, has been to see me," she cried.
"Excellent! What did she say?"
"Everything that a mean heart could suggest. But you will soon hear her statements. She is coming here herself, or, at least, so she said."
"Great Scott!"
Furneaux sprang up, and ran to the bell. For some reason which neither Mrs. Marsh nor her daughter could fathom, the mercurial little Jersey man was wild with excitement; even Winter seemed to be disturbed beyond expression. Johnson came, and Furneaux literally leaped at him.
"Ring up that number, quick! You know exactly what to say—and do!"
Johnson saluted and vanished again; Winter had chosen him for his special duties because he never uttered a needless word. Still, these tokens of activity in the police headquarters did not long repress the tumult in Rosalind's breast.
"If, as you tell me, Mr. Osborne is in no danger——" she began; but Winter held up an impressive hand.
"You are here in order to help him," he said gravely. "Pray believe that we appreciate your feelings most fully. If this girl, Hylda Prout, is really on her way here we have not a moment to lose. No more appeals, I beg of you, Miss Marsh. Tell us every word that passed between you and her. You can speak all the more frankly if I assure you that Mr. Furneaux, my colleague, has acted throughout in Mr. Osborne's interests. Were it not for him this young gentleman, who, I understand, will soon become your husband, would never have been cleared of the stigma of a dreadful crime.... No, pardon me, not a syllable on that subject.... What did Hylda Prout say? Why is she coming to Scotland Yard?"