This was a question I had been momentarily expecting and feared to answer.
“Yes,” I said hesitatingly; “I have seen him.”
“Then tell me quickly,” she cried excitedly; “tell me, is it true what the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he has fled abroad?”
She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind should again become unhinged.
“Yes, Dora,” I said sympathetically. “I am afraid it is true.”
She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the lace trimming of her dress.
“They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I understand,” she said. “The police think that Jack shot him.”
“They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I believe.”
“Do you suspect him?” she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.
“I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion.”