“So you are still fond of Eustace?” he said, bitterly.
“I love him more dearly than ever.”
He lifted his hands, and hid his face. After waiting a while, he went on, speaking in an odd, muffled manner, still under cover of his hands.
“And you leave Eustace in Spain,” he said; “and you return to England by yourself! What made you do that?”
“What made me first come here and ask you to help me, Mr. Dexter?”
He dropped his hands, and looked at me. I saw in his eyes, not amazement only, but alarm.
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you won’t let that miserable matter rest even yet? Are you still determined to penetrate the mystery at Gleninch?”
“I am still determined, Mr. Dexter; and I still hope that you may be able to help me.”
The old distrust that I remembered so well darkened again over his face the moment I said those words.
“How can I help you?” he asked. “Can I alter facts?” He stopped. His face brightened again, as if some sudden sense of relief had come to him. “I did try to help you,” he went on. “I told you that Mrs. Beauly’s absence was a device to screen herself from suspicion; I told you that the poison might have been given by Mrs. Beauly’s maid. Has reflection convinced you? Do you see something in the idea?”