"No," I said bluntly. "I am quite certain they were lying to me."
"Why should they have helped you, then?"
"I haven't the remotest idea," I admitted. "I am only quite sure that neither McMurtrie nor Savaroff are what they pretend to be. Besides, you remember the hints that Sonia gave me."
"Ah, Sonia!" Joyce looked down and played with one of the buttons of my coat. "Is she—is she very pretty?" she asked.
"She seems likely to be very useful," I said. Then, stroking Joyce's soft curly hair, which had become all tousled against my shoulder, I added: "But I'm answering questions when all the time I'm dying to ask them. There are a hundred things you've got to tell me. What are you doing here? Why do you call yourself Miss Vivien? Are you really living next door to Tommy? And George—how on earth do you come to be mixed up with George?"
"I'll tell you everything," she said, "only I must know all about you first. Why were you following George? You don't mean to let him know who you are? Oh, Neil, Neil, promise me that you won't do that."
"Joyce," I said slowly, "I want to find out who killed Seton Marks. I don't suppose there is the least chance of my doing so, and if I can't I most certainly mean to wring George's neck. That was chiefly what I broke out of prison for."
"Yes, yes," she said feverishly, "but there is a chance. You'll understand when I've explained." She put her hands to her forehead. "Oh, I hardly know where to begin."
"Begin anywhere," I said. "Tell me why you're pretending to be a palmist."
She got up from my knee and, walking slowly to the table, seated herself on the end.