“Indeed, I do,” she replied; “in fact I have had to hint to him that he mustn’t call too frequently. One must consider appearances, and, until I spoke, he was here nearly every day. But I hated doing it.”
“Still, Barbara, it was very necessary. It would be so in the case of any young woman; but in your case—er—especially so.”
I broke off awkwardly, not liking to say exactly what was in my mind. For, of course, in the atmosphere of suspicion which hung about him, his frequent visits would be a source of real danger. No motive for the murder had yet been suggested. It would be a disaster if his folly were to create the false appearance of one. But, as I have said, I shrank from pointing this out, though I think she understood what was in my mind, for she discreetly ignored the abrupt finish of my sentence and continued:
“Poor Tony! He is so very self-centred and he seems so dependent on me. And really, Rupert, I am a good deal concerned about him.”
“Why?” I asked, rather unsympathetically.
“He is getting so queer. He was always rather odd, as you know, but this trouble seems to be quite upsetting his balance. I am afraid he is getting delusions—and yet, in a way, I hope that he is.”
“What do you mean? What sort of delusions?”
“He imagines that he is being followed and watched. It is a perfect obsession, especially since that superintendent man called on him and cross-questioned him. But I don’t think I told you about that.”
“No, you did not,” said I, quite truthfully, but with an uncomfortable feeling that I was indirectly telling a lie.
“Well, it seems that this man, Miller, called at his rooms—so you see he knew where Tony was living—and, according to Tony’s account, extracted by all sorts of dreadful threats, a full confession of the means by which he obtained that cocaine.”