“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”
The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.
“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him—to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance—after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.
“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.
“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”
“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.
“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.
“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.
“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”
“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.