“What’s the meaning of this confounded secrecy?” I asked seriously.
“It means—well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me privately.”
“Male or female?”
“I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs,” he replied brusquely.
“Come, don’t humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is,” I said, trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:
“I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed, your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I’m almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them.”
“Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?”
“I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity of my best friend.”
Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor’s identity.
Was it some person who was assisting him to get rid of the hideous evidence of the crime?