But I had not allowed for Thorndyke’s uncanny capacity for inferring what was passing in another person’s mind. Very soon it became evident to me that he was fully alive to the possibility of some reservations on my part; and when one or two discreet questions had elicited some fact which I ought to have volunteered, he proceeded to something like definite cross-examination.
“So the household has broken up and the inmates scattered?” he began, when I had told him that I had obtained possession of the keys. “And Mabel Withers seems to have vanished, unless the police have kept her in view. Did you hear anything about Miss Norris?”
“Not very much. Barbara and she have exchanged visits once or twice, but they don’t seem to see much of each other.”
“And what about Wallingford? Does he seem to have been much disturbed by Miller’s descent on him?”
I had to admit that he was in a state bordering on panic.
“And what did Mrs. Monkhouse think of the forged orders on Dimsdale’s headed paper?”
“He hadn’t disclosed that. She thinks that he bought the cocaine at a druggist’s in the ordinary way, and I didn’t think it necessary to undeceive her.”
“No. The least said the soonest mended. Did you gather that she sees much of Wallingford?”
“Yes, rather too much. He was haunting her flat almost daily until she gave him a hint not to make his visits too noticeable.”
“Why do you suppose he was haunting her flat? So far as you can judge, Mayfield—that is in the strictest confidence, you understand—does there seem to be anything between them beyond ordinary friendliness?”