“Yes, indeed,” said Lily, and she turned away. The tears had welled up into her eyes.
“Well,” said Mr. Sharrow, “there’s nothing more to say, I suppose. Thank you very much for having answered my questions so clearly. I wanted to go up and see the Count and Countess Polda, but I shan’t do so now. The Commissioner of Police begged me not to do it. He said they’d been terribly upset about the whole thing. After all, they were very kind to poor Ponting. It’s rather too bad they should have had all this worry through him, even if they did lead indirectly to his death.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” said Lily, distressed.
Deep in her heart she could not help knowing that it was because of her presence at La Solitude that the unfortunate man had stayed on, and this secret knowledge was a bitter trouble to her—one, too, which she felt she could never confide to anybody as long as she lived.
“Well, but it’s true!” persisted Mr. Sharrow. “If he hadn’t stayed on there that evening he would be alive to-day. He and I would be on our way home by now.” He sighed and held out his hand. “Good-bye, and forgive me for the trouble I’ve put you to.”
“Good-bye,” said Lily mechanically.
M. Popeau led the now weeping girl into a side path where there was a bench.
“You must not take this sad affair too much to heart,” he said soothingly. “You must try and forget it.”
“I can’t forget it! I shall never forget it!” sobbed Lily. “I’ve had such a terrible time since I last saw you, M. Popeau. The Countess was terribly angry that I had gone to the police!”
“I told you she would be,” interjected the Frenchman.