“Do you believe it?” she added, as he paused, so to speak, on the strike.
“It is true enough,” he said, in a tone that took the question out of the region of the debatable. “Reggie Martindale was done to death that night; why—only one person, probably, on this earth knows; but that he did not die a natural death has all along been almost an open secret.”
“Has it?” she observed simply, yet with the slightest touch of contradiction. “Yes; well, I have heard as much. Mr. Dormer Greetland was telling us a long story about it a day or two ago. Still, I don’t see how it concerns me.”
She was better entrenched against his attack, he was forced to admit, than he had thought to find her; still, the defence should not serve.
“I’m afraid it does concern you, Countess, very nearly,” he replied, in a tone dark with impending mischief.
“Tell me how, Mr. Playford.”
He gave a slight bow, as accepting the challenge. “I have seen this little weapon, the tiny sword; a dangerous ornament, Countess.”
“Yes?” There seemed little more than a half-amused curiosity in her tone.
“The Duchess showed it to me, and—I recognized it.”
Alexia laughed. “Ah, now I know. I think I have guessed this mysterious piece of news. I suppose you are going to say that you have recognized this formidable ornament as belonging to me.”