“And of your visit to my house.”
She put up her hand and with a pretty gesture pushed back an unruly curl, meeting my gaze firmly and frankly and without any sign of disquiet.
“But—my visit to your house, Mr. Holt. I do not quite understand. Am I supposed to have visited your house on the night of the—?”
“You intend to deny it?” I asked. “Well, if you consider that worth while I suppose I could not prove it. After all, it would be merely my word against yours. But isn’t such a subterfuge between us two just a little—shall I say—grotesque?”
“Suppose you tell me all about it,” she said quite tranquilly. “Perhaps I have lost my memory. Such things do happen, don’t they? But then there is generally a railway accident, isn’t there, or a motor smash. And I haven’t even knocked my head. Do tell me all about it, Mr. Holt.”
I could not help admiring the skill with which she kept me at arm’s-length. It was grotesque, of course, as I had said, but it was wonderfully clever. Whatever her object, she certainly lacked none of the gifts and qualities of an accomplished actress.
“Doesn’t your attitude suggest,” I said, “that you have—er—something to conceal?”
“Does it?” she asked, opening her eyes wide. “I wonder what it can be? Oh, yes, the night of the—the tragedy. Are you suggesting by any chance that I murdered Sir Philip—is that what you mean, Mr. Holt? Speak out if it is—please do not hesitate.”
“I did not say that.”
“But then what have I to do with it all?” she demanded, stamping her foot as if she were really angry. “You must tell me what you mean, Mr. Holt. You have said too much not to say more. What is it you suspect? You hint at this and hint at that, but say nothing straight out. It is a cowardly way to attack a woman.”