“Never?” I queried, ignoring her concluding sentence.
“And she never promised to marry Sir Philip Clevedon.”
“No?”
She turned suddenly on the girl who, as I have said, was seated a little behind her.
“Was that what they meant at the inquest?” she demanded. “They said—that housekeeper, wasn’t it?—that Philip Clevedon and Ronald Thoyne quarrelled over—over a—a woman. Was that it? Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know what Mr. Holt is talking about,” the girl replied carelessly.
She had entirely recovered her equanimity and was completely mistress of herself again.
“You were not engaged to Mr. Thoyne?” I asked.
“I was not.”
“And Sir Philip did not want to marry you?”