“I gave you a hint, Countess, in my note.”
“Please explain it.”
“You did not understand it?” The tone was incredulous; coupled with the sly look, almost offensively so.
“Not in the least,” Alexia returned simply, so directly as to blunt the point of the insinuation.
But Playford was not the man to show a repulse. “It is about this business at Vaux House,” he said, with quiet incisiveness.
“Oh? What of that? How does it concern me?”
If she was playing a part, her skill called forth his grudging admiration; grudging because he knew from her tone that, except under duress, she was not for him.
“You know, Countess,” he replied, speaking now with forced directness; “you have seen that the little jewelled sword, a hair ornament, with which Reggie Martindale was killed, has been found?”
“Yes,” she responded casually; “I saw that in the paper.”
He told himself, as he watched her, that she had gone a shade paler; that was all; and he could not be quite certain of that.