“Oh, that will do,” I said. “You may go.”
When alone with Merton, he said to me, “You must call on her.”
“No,” I said; “she is suspected of something and I, at least for a time, was taken to be an accomplice. That would never do.”
“You are right,” returned Merton, thoughtfully; “quite right. You must keep quiet. The matter, whatever it may be, is still unsettled; but I am resolute to find what this woman has done, and why she is watched like a suspected thief. I never was more curious.”
For a moment we considered the situation in silence. At last Merton said, “If this woman goes out into society, might you not chance to meet her?”
“Yes, but I never as yet have done so, and I remember faces well. I may meet her any day, or never meet her at all, but any direct approach we must give up. The more I think of it, the graver it appears. If it be a police affair, no letter reaches her unopened. Rest assured of that. She is like a fly in a cobweb. Chance may help us, but so far the luck has been against us.”
“No,” said Merton; “the game is not played out. There is something they don’t know, and they are, therefore, no better off than we.”
With this he went away and Alphonse returned. The man was plainly troubled. He said he could do no more, and that when he had made his report to the police that day he had been told to keep a closer watch on me and my letters. Might he show them a note or two?
I said, laughing: “Yes; there are two replies to invitations and a note to my tailor.”