“You have, then, a reason for wishing not to meet her?”
“I have never met her,” she declared in a hard voice. “I do not believe she was actually that woman?”
“I have merely told you Hoefer’s statement,” I answered. “I know nothing of who or what she is; the name sounds as though she were an actress.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” she demanded. “Not another word beyond what you have already said?”
“He only told me that he had discovered her identity.”
“He has not found out her motive in visiting me?” she cried quickly.
“Not yet—as far as I am aware.”
She breathed more freely. That she desired to preserve the secret of this woman, whom she feared, was plain, but for what reason it was impossible to guess. Indeed, from her attitude, it seemed very much as though she were actually aware that her visitor and La Gioia were one and the same person. I saw by the twitching of her lips that she was nervous, and knew that she now regretted allowing Hoefer to prosecute his inquiries into the curious phenomena.
As I sat there with her, feasting my eyes upon her peerless beauty, I thought it all over, and arrived at the conclusion that, to discover the truth, I must remain patient and watchful, and never for a single instant show “my hand.”
I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife, and regarded her rather as an enemy than as a friend. She had forced herself upon me with some ulterior motive, which, although not yet apparent, would, I felt confident, be some day revealed.