Josephine came quietly through the door, as carelessly as if she were merely paying a call on a friend, and walked across the court-yard. The moment Leonard whistled, the way was clear; she had only to go to him.
Ralph was furious but quite calm. He was ready to fight this second adversary as he had fought the first, and conquer her, but with very different weapons.
He took the further precaution of locking the door of the dressing-room. Bridget Rousselin could not interrupt them, even if she found the strength to do so. There came the sound of a light footfall on the staircase. The door opened and Josephine entered.
Ralph had formed a very just estimate of Josephine’s power of self-control. But he did expect that the unexpected scene which met her eyes and the sudden and unexpected sight of him would shake it. Nothing of the kind.
She stopped short, gazed round the room, took in the trussed-up Leonard and Ralph’s indignant face in a glance that lasted perhaps a second and a half.
Then she pushed up her veil and said in the most casual voice: “What are you looking at me like that for, dear?”
He stared at her with all his eyes; he did not wish to lose a quiver of her eyelids, or the faintest twitch of her lips. He said slowly:
“Bridget Rousselin has been murdered.”
“Bridget Rousselin—murdered?” she said under her breath.
“Yes. The actress we saw last night, the one who was wearing the bandeau of jewels. You’re not going to tell me that you don’t know who she is, for you’re here, in her house, and you had instructed Leonard to let you know directly he had done the job.”