“Why, this. He always seemed such a white man. My, isn't it queer what people will do?”
Henry, who had been brought up on Dr. Svensen's narrations of his Arctic explorations, and greatly revered him, said, “But I don't believe he's done anything.”
“Not done a get-away, you mean? Well now, why should he, after all? Perhaps he fell right into this deep lake after dining, and couldn't get out, poveretto. Yet he was a real fine swimmer they say.”
“Most improbable,” said Henry, who had dismissed that hypothesis already. He leant forward and spoke discreetly. “I fancy, Miss Longfellow, there are those in Geneva who could throw some light on this affair if they chose.”
“You don't say! Dio mio! Now isn't that quite a notion!” Miss Longfellow was interested. “Why, Mr. Beechtree, you don't suspect foul play, do you?”
Henry nodded.
“I suppose I rather easily suspect foul play,” he candidly admitted. “It's more interesting, and I'm a journalist. But in this case there are reasons——”
“Now isn't this too terribly exciting! Reasons! Just you tell me all you know, Mr. Beechtree, if it's not indiscreet. Non son' giornalista, io!”
“I don't know anything. Except that there are people who might be glad to get Svensen out of the way.”