Though she spoke almost in italics, and was pale and flurried, she looked jauntily at Furneaux, with her head tossed back; and he, with half a smile, answered:
"I withdraw my remark as to your detective qualifications, Miss Prout. Yes, I think you reason well. If there was a thief, and the thief was the murderer, he would very likely have acted as you say."
"Then, why was the stiletto not found in the flat?" she asked.
"The fact that it was not found would seem to show that there was not a thief," he said; and he added quickly: "Perhaps Mr. Osborne gave it, as well as the celt, to someone. I suppose you asked him?"
"He was gone away an hour before I missed them," Hylda answered. She hesitated again. When next she spoke it was with a smile that would have won a stone.
"Tell me where he is," she pleaded, "and I will write to him about it. You may safely tell me, you know, for Mr. Osborne has no secrets from me."
"I wish I could tell you.... Oh, but he will soon be back again, and then you will see him and speak to him once more."
Some tone of badinage in these jerky sentences brought a flush to her face, but she tried to ward off his scrutiny with a commonplace remark.
"Well, that's some consolation. I must wait in patience till the mob finds a new sensation."
Furneaux took a turn through the room, silently meditating.