“That’s why I’m blushing so furiously. . . . However, psychological deductions alone do not determine facts in esse, but only in posse. Other conditions must, of course, be considered. In the present instance the indications of the samovar served merely as the basis for an assumption, or guess, with which to draw out the housekeeper.”
“Well, I won’t deny that you succeeded,” said Markham. “I’d like to know, though, what you had in mind when you accused the woman of a personal interest in the girl. That remark certainly indicated some pre-knowledge of the situation.”
Vance’s face became serious.
“Markham, I give you my word,” he said earnestly, “I had nothing in mind. I made the accusation, thinking it was false, merely to trap her into a denial. And she fell into the trap. But—deuce take it!—I seemed to hit some nail squarely on the head, what? I can’t for the life of me imagine why she was frightened.—But it really doesn’t matter.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Markham, but his tone was dubious. “What do you make of the box of jewellery and the disagreement between Benson and the girl?”
“Nothing yet. They don’t fit in, do they?”
He was silent a moment. Then he spoke with unusual seriousness.
“Markham, take my advice and don’t bother with these side-issues. I’m telling you the girl had no part in the murder. Let her alone,—you’ll be happier in your old age if you do.”
Markham sat scowling, his eyes in space.
“I’m convinced that you think you know something.”