“First of all, what did you wish to consult me about?”
His tone was curt and business-like and, fortified by the food which she had badly needed, she was able to collect her thoughts and put them more clearly into words.
She gave him a brief account of what had happened. The main facts he had already learned from the evening papers, in which Mrs. Draycott’s latest photograph, over the caption of “The Murdered Woman,” had confronted him. He questioned her sharply on one or two points, otherwise he let her tell the story in her own way. When she had finished he sat back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully, for a minute. Then he leaned forward, his keen eyes on hers.
“Where was Leslie while all this was happening at the farm?” he asked sharply.
Cynthia met his gaze without flinching.
“With me,” she answered simply.
“Then why doesn’t he say so?”
“That’s what I wanted to see you about. It doesn’t clear him. You see, he wasn’t with me at the time they seem to think the murder actually took place. And now he doesn’t want me to say anything because he’s afraid it will drag me into it for nothing. I think he’s wrong and he ought to tell them. Mother being so hateful about our engagement makes it all so much more difficult.”
“When was he with you?”
“From five till nearly half-past. Then he did exactly what he said, took a long walk and did not get back to the farm till about eight. It was all my fault, really.”