“Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just now?”
“No, miss.”
Nothing but ill-luck for me! If I had been left to my own devices, I should now have let the housemaid go. But Selina contrived to give me a hint, on a strange plan of her own. Still at the piano, she began to confuse talking to herself with playing to herself. The notes went tinkle, tinkle—and the tongue mixed up words with the notes in this way: “Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen about Philip?”
The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria—who was standing at the other end of the room, near the door—“Did you happen to hear which way Mr. Dunboyne went when he left us?”
“I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago.”
“Where was he?”
“At the hotel.”
Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. “How does she know—ah, how does she know?” was the vocal part of the performance this time. My clever inquiries followed the vocal part as before:
“How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?”
“I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer.”