“Higgins!” cried Corole hoarsely, flinging up one brown, jewelled hand toward her throat. “Higgins! But he is dead!”
“Higgins told me,” repeated O’Leary. “Now then, tell me. What did you and Dr. Hajek do?”
“We—we met at the bridge. We walked together through the orchard.” Corole’s desperate effort to regain her self-control was not nice to witness.
“Go on.”
“Then—as I said—we heard a man in Room 18. And wanted to know what he was doing there. That was natural, I think.” She paused.
“Possibly,” said O’Leary. “Why did you not wait until this—this man—came out from Eighteen?”
“We did not wait for him. Someone came along. We never knew just who it was, though I thought that it was Jim Gainsay. He was in the orchard that night, too.”
“Seems to have been a popular rendezvous,” commented O’Leary grimly. “So this approaching person frightened you away?”
“Not at all,” denied Corole with a flash of her normal ease. “We just—left.”
“Where did you go?”