The lady’s face changed, and her brows contracted slightly. “Why do you ask that?” she asked.
“Because it has a direct bearing upon the present situation.”
“Well—yes. I believe she has, or had, a friend of that name. A man who lives in Paris.”
“Was he a friend of Audley’s?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Have you ever heard of a girl named Marigold Day—a mannequin at Carille’s?”
“Never.”
I paused. Then I bent towards her and said, very earnestly, “Has it ever struck you, Mrs. Shaylor, that your daughter knows just a little more concerning Stanley Audley than she has yet told us?”
“Why do you ask that question?” she inquired.
“Well—because somehow it has struck me so,” I said. “And I will go a little further. I believe she knows where her husband is, but—for some reason or other—fears to betray him!”