“I’m afraid you won’t remember me, Miss Allen,” he said. “But we drove home from Whitbury together the other day.”
For a moment she looked puzzled, then her face relaxed in a pleasant smile.
“Of course,” she exclaimed. “You were with Lady Cynthia and Sir Edward Kean.”
“I’m an old friend of hers, though I hadn’t seen her for years till the other day. I could wish we hadn’t renewed our acquaintance under such sad circumstances.”
“Poor child, I’m afraid she’s in for a bad time. I wish it was over, for all our sakes.”
“It is as hard on you as on her,” said Fayre sympathetically. “If you will forgive my saying so, it was very kind of you to write to her as you did.”
“It was the least I could do. I was as convinced then, as I am now, that John Leslie had nothing to do with it and I felt it was my duty to say so.”
“I wonder if I may ask you a question? Believe me, it is not from idle curiosity.”
She looked both surprised and interested. “Certainly,” she said. “But if it is about my sister, I am afraid I told Sir Edward all I knew when he came to see me the other day.”
“Can you think of any one among your sister’s friends who drives a large car with a touring body and who was likely to have been in this part of the world on the night of the tragedy?”