“It would not help you any,” I said, “if I were to go into details about this unfortunate matter. Suffice it to say that my information is positive and precise—that it could hardly be more so.”
There was a long silence. He sat with eyes rivetted upon me. “What is this disease?” he demanded, at last.
I named it, and then again there was a pause. “How long has this—this possibility of infection existed?”
“Ever since her marriage, nearly eighteen months ago.”
That told him a good part of the story. I felt his look boring me through. Was I a mad woman? Or some new kind of blackmailer? Or, was I, possibly, a Claire? I was grateful for my forty-cent bonnet and my forty-seven years.
“Naturally,” he said at length, “this information startles me.”
“When you have thought it over,” I responded, “you will realise that no possible motive could bring me here but concern for the welfare of my friend.”
He took a few moments to consider. “That may be true, madame, but let me add that when you say you KNOW this——”
He stopped. “I MEAN that I know it,” I said, and stopped in turn.
“Has Mrs. van Tuiver herself any idea of this situation?”