“Good morning, Mr. Knox. It was good of you to come down so early.”
“I had hoped for a chat with you before Inspector Aylesbury returned,” I explained.
She looked at me pathetically.
“I suppose he will want me to give evidence?”
“He will. We had great difficulty in persuading him not to demand your presence last night.”
“It was impossible,” she protested. “It would have been cruel to make me leave Madame in the circumstances.”
“We realized this, Miss Beverley, but you will have to face the ordeal this morning.”
We walked through into the library, where a maid white-faced and frightened looking, was dusting in a desultory fashion. She went out as we entered, and Val Beverley stood looking from the open window out into the rose garden bathed in the morning sunlight.
“Oh, Heavens,” she said, clenching her hands desperately, “even now I cannot realize that the horrible thing is true.” She turned to me. “Who can possibly have committed this cold-blooded crime?” she said in a low voice. “What does Mr. Harley think? Has he any idea, any idea whatever?”
“Not that he has confided to me,” I said, watching her intently. “But tell me, does Madame de Stämer know yet?”