“That is easily arranged,” was the reply. “She is staying in the house to-night. But dinner first. Are you really going, though, to tell us—?”
“I have every hope of it,” I responded and there I left it, though during dinner I was subjected to a sort of oblique catechism, chiefly by the two ladies, which I parried as best I could. Not that they addressed many questions directly to me but their conversation, ostensibly between themselves, really amounted to that.
My interview with Nora Lepley took place in the study, the room wherein Sir Philip Clevedon had been found dead, though I don’t think Lady Billy had any particular thought in mind when she sent us there; it merely happened to be convenient. I was not sorry the room had been chosen, though it had not occurred to me to suggest it.
“Now sit down, Miss Lepley,” I said, “and let us talk. But first of all I want you to understand that I mean you no harm if you are frank with me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she responded a little sullenly, giving me a flashing glance from her black eyes that was at least three parts anger. “What harm could you do me? I am not afraid of you. This is the second time you have wanted me. Didn’t you believe me? Is it about Mary again?”
“No,” I replied, “it is about yourself this time. Did you know that some time ago the police took out a warrant for your arrest?”
“Arrest!”—she sat back in her chair and regarded me smilingly—“Why should they want to arrest me?”
If Nora Lepley was in any way afraid of me or even unusually disturbed she did not show it. Her dark eyes, full of slumbrous fires and undefined passions, regarded me frankly, and a queer, rather mocking smile hovered about her finely modelled lips. She was beautiful in an unexpected, unusual fashion, but her loveliness lacked softness and charm, at least that was my reading of it. She might fascinate or infatuate many men but few of them would love her.
There was not the faintest sign or touch of weakness about her and one could hardly imagine her reduced to tears. Whatever the trouble she was facing, she would fight to the end. One could only try to entrap her with the odds rather in favour of failure unless one were very well equipped indeed. I had to try it anyway.
“They want to arrest you,” I said, speaking carelessly, though I was watching her closely, “for the murder of Sir Philip Clevedon.”