“Then it seems to me very much as though she is hand-in-glove with the Major, her lover, and Mrs Chetwode, and that they all of them know the truth regarding the tragedy.”
“That’s exactly my theory,” I responded, taking down my pipe from the rack, and filling it while Bob poured me out a drink.
“But the injuries?”
I described them in terms which, being technical, are of no interest to you, my reader, and he sat listening with a dark, thoughtful expression upon his round, usually merry countenance.
“A fact which is very puzzling to me, old fellow,” he said at last, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, “is the reason her ladyship was so extremely eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes; I can’t understand it in the least. It is fortunate, however, that she is in ignorance of my visit to Whitton.”
“Most fortunate,” he answered. “My idea is that the truth is only to be obtained here, in London—and not down there.”
“Do you think. Bob, that I acted wisely in keeping the secret of that midnight meeting to myself?” I asked earnestly, for I felt that perhaps I had, by so doing foiled the activity of the police.
“Certainly. You are in possession of two distinct facts which may lead us to a clue, not only to the murderer, but to the motive of your marriage to this mysterious wife of yours.”
“Does it strike you that the Major may be the actual assassin?”