“Alas, yes.”
“Hanging is too good for such brutes; but I will never rest till they hang for it. Have you any idea who are the fiends who did this?”
“An idea? Say rather that I have a suspicion,” returned Gimblet. “Surely you can see the direction in which the circumstances point?”
“Unless it was the chauffeur,” said Sidney, “I can’t imagine who can have done it.”
“I don’t think there is anything in the theory that the chauffeur or any one of the servants had a hand in it. There are several things which make that idea hardly worth considering. But there is one person against whom things look very black. Do you mean to say you can’t see who it is?”
“No, I can’t,” repeated Sidney.
“Mr. Sidney,” said the detective slowly, “where do you suppose Miss Turner is?”
“I only wish I knew,” answered the young man; “it is horrible not to know. Where do you think she can possibly be? Tell me the truth, Mr. Gimblet: do you believe she is dead?” He spoke harshly, and with averted eyes.
“No,” said Gimblet, “I don’t think she is dead.”