“What are those points?” muttered Lily.
“One curious point is that the man appears to have been drugged. If true, that is a very curious fact, for it disposes of the idea that he was set upon and killed by a gang of men who had never seen him before. The object of Bouton, and of the detectives he has put on the case, is to discover where the old fellow spent his last evening. That is still shrouded in absolute mystery! Mme. Sansot declares that she does not know. The Commissioner is sure she is telling the truth, but Popeau—who, as of course you know, Lily, is a distinguished French secret agent—is convinced that the woman does know, and will not tell. He is even inclined to believe that she knows more of the murder than she is willing to admit. But that neither I nor mamma think likely. Altogether it is a very exciting affair!”
Lily could not speak. Her mind was in a whirl of miserable suspicion and questioning fear.
“Perhaps you do not realise,” went on Beppo, “that the spot where the hideous discovery was made is only about two hundred yards from La Solitude!”
“Surely we’re much farther off than that here!” exclaimed Lily.
“Yes, walking homeward as we are now walking, we are at least a mile from La Solitude. But do you remember, during our first drive, how we went by a short cut through the olive woods?”
“Yes,” remembered Lily, “I remember that.”
“The Dutchman’s body was found,” said Beppo impressively, “just above the kind of yellow morass into which, as you may remember, our motor-car sank.”
Lily gave a long, convulsive gasp. She saw as if it was indeed there, in the air before her, the trolley pushed up against the inner wall of the outhouse, with its big bicycle wheels stained with yellow mud.
And then, all at once, her companion saw that she was extraordinarily disturbed. He felt both astonished and alarmed; the girl looked on the point of fainting.