Thoyne regarded me frowningly for a moment or two.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “there is nobody. I can say that, Holt, freely enough. Clevedon—but he is dead, anyway, and there’s no one else.”
“Did you ever hear,” I asked, “of a girl named Grainger?”
He gave me a quick glance sideways.
“Yes,” he said. “I knew Miss Grainger very well.”
We relapsed into silence which lasted for several minutes.
“Shall I tell you the story?” I asked softly, “or will you tell me?”
“What story?” he demanded roughly.
“The story of Mary Grainger,” I returned.
“There is no story,” he said. “The poor girl is dead. Let her rest.”