“We have both been victims of a plot,” she responded. “If we could but discern the motive, then we might find some clue to lead us to the truth.”
“But there is a woman called La Gioia,” I said; and, continuing, explained my presence in the park at Whitton, and the conversation I had overheard between herself and Tattersett.
Her hand, still in mine, trembled perceptibly, and I saw that I had approached a subject distasteful to her.
“Yes,” she admitted at last, in a hard, strange voice, “it is true that he wrote making an appointment to meet me in the park that night. I kept it because I wished to ascertain the truth regarding my marriage. But he would tell me nothing; he only urged me to secure my own safety because La Gioia had returned.”
“And who is La Gioia?”
“My enemy—my bitterest enemy.”
“Can you tell me nothing else?” I asked in a tone of slight reproach.
“I know nothing else. I do not know who or what she is, or where she lives. I only know that she is my unseen evil genius.”
“But you have seen her. She called upon you on that evening at Gloucester Square when she assumed the character of your dressmaker, and a few nights ago she was here—in this house.”
“Here?” she echoed in alarm. “Impossible!”