“You showed me how highly you esteemed that poor lady in your evidence at the Trial,” I said. “I believe, Mr. Dexter, you have ideas of your own about the mystery of her death?”
He had been looking at my hand, resting on the arm of his chair, until I ventured on my question. At that he suddenly raised his eyes, and fixed them with a frowning and furtive suspicion on my face.
“How do you know I have ideas of my own?” he asked, sternly.
“I know it from reading the Trial,” I answered. “The lawyer who cross-examined you spoke almost in the very words which I have just used. I had no intention of offending you, Mr. Dexter.”
His face cleared as rapidly as it had clouded. He smiled, and laid his hand on mine. His touch struck me cold. I felt every nerve in me shivering under it; I drew my hand away quickly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “if I have misunderstood you. I have ideas of my own about that unhappy lady.” He paused and looked at me in silence very earnestly. “Have you any ideas?” he asked. “Ideas about her life? or about her death?”
I was deeply interested; I was burning to hear more. It might encourage him to speak if I were candid with him. I answered, “Yes.”
“Ideas which you have mentioned to any one?” he went on.
“To no living creature,” I replied—“as yet.”
“This very strange!” he said, still earnestly reading my face. “What interest can you have in a dead woman whom you never knew? Why did you ask me that question just now? Have you any motive in coming here to see me?”