"You have repeated these suspicions to no one else? The Police?"
"To no one. Only Sexton and I have even talked the matter over. We are both too loyal to you to ever say a word which might be to your injury."
She suddenly held out her hand, and he took it, conscious of the firm clasp of her fingers.
"I thank you, Captain West," she said sincerely, "and believe your purpose was honourable. You have told me frankly all you suspect, and doubtless you have reasons. You have simply made a mistake, that is all. Percival Coolidge was not murdered; he killed himself because he had muddled my affairs, and knew he was about to be discovered. You have got upon a wrong trail. Will you accept my word for this, and drop the whole matter here?"
West was almost convinced, but not quite; the explanation had not been sufficiently explicit.
"This man Hobart—who is he? What connection does he have with your affairs?"
She hesitated slightly, yet her eyes did not fall, or her apparent cordiality change.
"Mr. Hobart," she explained, "I have known for years. I told you before he was once in my father's employ. Now he is a private detective, and was employed on my case, before I advertised for you. I thought then he was not accomplishing anything, but at our interview Sunday, all was cleared up."
"In the presence of Percival Coolidge?"
"Yes; he was given a week in which to straighten matters. That was why he killed himself."