"The question is," said Buntingford, "how long did she stay there? She was not under the yews when you saw her?"
"No—just outside."
"Well, then, supposing, to get out of the way of the searchlight, she found her way in and discovered my seat—how long do you guess she was there?—and when the bag dropped?"
"Any time between then—and midnight—when Helena found it," said French. "She may have gone very soon after I saw her, leaving the bag on the seat; or, if she stayed, on my supposition that she was there for the purpose of spying, then she probably vanished when she heard our boat drawn up, and knew that Helena and I were getting out."
"A long sitting!" said Buntingford with a laugh—"four hours. I really can't construct any reasonable explanation on those lines."
"Why not? Some people have a passion for spying and eavesdropping. If I were such a person, dumped in a country village with nothing to do, I think I could have amused myself a good deal last night, in that observation post. Through that hole I told you of, one could see the lights and the dancing on the lawn, and watch the boats on the lake. She could hear the music, and if anyone did happen to be talking secrets just under the yews, she could have heard every word, quite easily."
Involuntarily he looked at Helena, Helena was looking at the grass. Was it mere fancy, or was there a sudden pinkness in her cheeks? Buntingford too seemed to have a slightly conscious air. But he rose to his feet, with a laugh.
"Well, I'll have a stroll to the village, some time to-day, and see what I can discover about your Incognita, Helena. If she is a holiday visitor, she'll be still on the spot. Geoffrey had better come with me, as he's the only person who's seen her."
"Right you are. After lunch."
Buntingford nodded assent and went into the house.