“How?”
“You talk of my secret—dangerous secret, I think you called it. I have no secret, dangerous or harmless, that can be shared by you—or anything else.”
He took a step nearer and lowered his tone as he replied, “This is absurd, Countess. You will not put me off so. The little weapon with which Martindale was killed belonged to you.”
“Indeed?” She gave a laugh. “I do not admit that for an instant; but, supposing it did, what then?”
He had scarcely expected this unwavering defence, this absence of any sign of fear in her. He was bound now to fight without compunction.
“It would, naturally, coupled with other circumstances, raise a very ugly suspicion against you.”
“What other circumstances?”
“Won’t you render it unnecessary for me to mention them?”
“How?”
“By letting me be no longer out of favour with you,” he pleaded.