“Fancy meeting you, Mr. Holt!” she cried.
“I have just been to Hapforth House,” I replied, wondering what might be the explanation of her unexpected cordiality, though I fancy that what she really had in mind was to show that at least she did not fear me. “I—well, in fact,” I went on, “I wanted a word or two with you.”
“With me!”
“May I turn and walk back part of the way with you?” I asked.
“Why, of course,” she replied. “I always prefer company if I can get it, and it’s none too plentiful here. I am used to lonely walks, though one can have too many of them. A woman likes to talk, you know, but one cannot converse with stone walls.”
She rattled on, rather intent apparently on doing most of the talking, as if she did not wish to give me an opportunity. But I merely bided my time, knowing the chance would come; and presently she seemed to realise that, because she interrupted her flow of chatter and turned as if waiting for me to speak.
“You wanted—was it about something particular?” she asked.
The words were all right, but the mocking smile in her eyes, and the set of her pretty lips, rather belied them. She was preparing to meet her adversary with a woman’s weapons.
“It is about the night of the—of the murder,” I began slowly.
“Yes?” she said.