There was an awkward pause, which was broken by Greig:
"This lady, Miss Strong, has valuable information."
She turned her moistened eyes on Britz, who, through half-closed lids, was endeavoring to appraise her.
Keen student of human nature that he was, quick as he was to gather those little details of personal appearance which, to the trained eye, reveal with pitiless accuracy the innermost character of a human being, Britz was unable to form any satisfactory estimate of her. Outwardly, she had the appearance of a woman crushed beneath a great grief. Yet, there appeared to be something insincere in her sorrow, something calculating in her hesitancy. These contradictions in her manner puzzled and annoyed him, for experience had taught the detective to be wary of women informers. So he waited for her to speak.
"I wish to deliver the murderer of Mr. Whitmore," she said, stifling a sob.
Britz nodded encouragingly, but she appeared in no haste to proceed. Instead, she permitted her gaze to alternate between him and Greig, as if trying to read the effect of her words in their impassive faces.
Her pause might have been that of the consummate actress waiting to note the effect of her artfully delivered line; it might have been the timorous uncertainty of a child affrighted at its own boldness.
"The murderer will be at my home at eleven to-night," she went on in the same seemingly artless way.
"And you are preparing a trap for his capture?" inquired Britz, deliberately conveying to her the incredulity which he felt.
"No, not a trap," she dissented. "I am determined to see justice done."