“One that even I must not know?” she inquired, in genuine surprise.
“Yes, even you must not know, Liane,” he answered. “Women are apt to grow confidential towards their lovers, and if the secret were once out, then my plans would be thwarted.”
“You suspect someone?” she asked, in a low, harsh voice.
“Well,” he answered, regarding his unlit cigarette intently, “I will not say that I actually suspect someone, but I have a theory, strange though it may be, which I believe will turn out to be the correct one.”
Liane started. Father and daughter again exchanged quick glances. She fancied she saw suspicion in his eyes.
“May I not assist you?” she asked. “You know that in the past I’ve many times brought you luck at the tables.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “In this I must act entirely alone. George Stratfield no doubt occupies all your thoughts.” She thought she detected a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
The girl blushed deeply, but did not answer. Her father, inveterate smoker that he was, lit his cigarette and sat silent and self-absorbed for a long time. He was thinking of the bright happy girl who, cold and dead in her tiny room upstairs, was the victim of a foul, terrible, and mysterious crime.
“How long have you known this man?” the Captain inquired at last.
“Three months.”