"Enright, you say? No, I think not. He claimed to know me? That is rather strange. Who did he think I was?"
Miss La Rue bit her lip. She had found her match evidently, but would strike harder.
"A reporter on the Star. Naturally we couldn't help wondering what you was doing out here. You are in the newspaper business, ain't you?"
"Yes," realising further concealment was useless, "but on my vacation. I thought I explained all that to Mr. Beaton. I am not exactly a reporter. I am what they call a special writer—sometimes write for magazines like Scribbler's, other times for newspapers. I do feature-stuff."
"Whatever that is."
"Human-interest stories; anything unusual; strange happenings in every-day life, you know."
"Murders, and—and robberies."
"Occasionally, if they are out of the ordinary." She took a swift breath, and made the plunge. "Like the Frederick Cavendish case—do you remember that?"
Miss La Rue stared at her across the darkening room, but if she changed colour the gloom concealed it, and her voice was steady enough.
"No," she said shortly, "I never read those things. What happened?"