“I am a police inspector attached to the Criminal Investigation Department, and I was sent down here, about a week ago, to make inquiries concerning the death of Mrs. Emily Garlett, your late wife.”
Harry Garlett got up from his chair; he was so bewildered, so amazed, and yes, so dismayed, at what the other had just said, that he wondered whether he could have heard those strange, disturbing words aright.
“Concerning the death of my wife?” he repeated. “I don’t understand exactly what you mean by that——?”
James Kentworthy did not take his eyes off the other’s face. Long and successful as had been his career in the Criminal Investigation Department, he had never had a case of which the opening moves interested and, in a sense, puzzled him so much as did this case. He asked himself whether the man now standing opposite to him, whose face had gone gray under its healthy tan, was an innocent man, or that most dangerous and vile of criminals, a secret poisoner?
“From some information recently laid before the Home Office, it seems desirable that the cause of Mrs. Garlett’s death should be fully ascertained,” he said slowly.
Harry Garlett sat down again.
“On whose information are you acting?” he asked.
“That, for obvious reasons, we are not prepared to divulge,” answered the other coldly. And he also sat down.
Harry Garlett’s mind was darting hither and thither. Curse the gossips of Terriford! He had known them to create much smoke where he had felt convinced there was no fire—but never, never so noisome a smoke as this.
His heart became suddenly full of Jean—his darling, innocent little love. Such a child, too, as regarded the evil side of human nature, with all her common sense and practical cleverness. The thought of Jean almost unmanned him, but, in a flash, he realized that if only for her sake he must face this odious inquiry with courage and frankness.