When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and as she sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, she regarded me, I think, with some little surprise.
“Well,” she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguised expression of amusement, “why all this secrecy? Don’t you think it would be best if we allowed the door to be open?”
“No, Mabel,” I answered. “What I am about to utter is for no other ears than yours.”
She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath the faint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, she recovered her self-possession and declared that she was all attention. She was always an admirable actress.
“We have been friends, Mabel, for many years, and this fact allows me to speak with greater freedom,” I said, seating myself carelessly upon the edge of the table before her. “To-night I have made a discovery. I discovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who—”
“And you overheard!” she gasped, starting to her feet. “You—you listened to what I said?”
“I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither your enemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I assure you, is in safe keeping.”
Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly into the dying fire.
“You will remember,” I continued, “that you introduced me to young Sternroyd, the man who is missing—the man who has been murdered.”
“Murdered? How do you know?” she snapped.