“Then if it is a suspicion—”
“It isn’t—it is merely a question.”
“Good! Then Thoyne himself will, sooner or later, supply the answer. But I have not finished my record yet. Just before she died, Mary Grainger wrote to her father, telling him she had secretly married an American soldier, who was in hospital in Bristol, only to find later that he had already a wife—”
“Ronald Thoyne is an American,” old Lady Clevedon muttered.
“I have heard so,” I rejoined. “But that is the story. Those are the ascertained facts. It is Thoyne’s turn now.”
“But before he says anything,” Kitty Clevedon interposed suddenly, “I want to tell you all that I don’t believe a word of it.”
“The detective man said they were facts,” the old lady remarked dryly.
“Perhaps,” Kitty retorted, flushing hotly.
“I don’t remember that there was any perhaps about it,” old Lady Clevedon replied.