“And Mr. Gray?”
“He is not such an old friend as Sir Lucien was. But I fancy nevertheless it was Mr. Gray that her husband doubted.”
“Do ye suspect the puir soul had cause, Dan?”
“No,” replied Kerry promptly; “I don’t. The boy is mad about her, but I fancy she just liked his company. He’s the heir of Lord Wrexborough, and Mrs. Irvin used to be a stage beauty. It’s a usual state of affairs, and more often than not means nothing.”
“I dinna ken sich folk,” declared Mary Kerry. “They a’most desairve all they get. They are bound tee come tee nae guid end. Where did ye say Sir Lucien lived?”
“Albemarle Street; just round the corner.”
“Ye told me that he only kepit twa sairvents: a cook, hoosekeper, who lived awe’, an’ a man—a foreigner?”
“A kind of half-baked Dago, named Juan Mareno. A citizen of the United States according to his own account.”
“Ye dinna like Juan Mareno?”
“He’s a hateful swine!” flashed Kerry, with sudden venom. “I’m watching Mareno very closely. Coombes is at work upon Sir Lucien’s papers. His life was a bit of a mystery. He seems to have had no relations living, and I can’t find that he even employed a solicitor.”