“Let us hope nothing will happen,” I said cheerfully. “Why should it?”
His face broadened into a meaning grin, and he readjusted his hideous round spectacles and lit a fresh cigar.
“Really, Mr Shaw,” I said, “your dark forebodings and your strange declarations puzzle me. True, I have endeavoured to serve your interests, and I regard you as a friend, heedless of what I cannot help suspecting. Yet you are never open and frank with me concerning one thing—your friendship with Melvill Arnold.”
He started at mention of the name—a fact which caused me to ponder.
“I hardly follow you.”
“Well,” I said. “Shortly before leaving England I received a visit from a certain Mrs Olliffe—a lady living near Bath. I believe you know her?”
“Yes!” he gasped, grasping the edge of the table and half rising from his seat. “Then she has seen you!” he cried. “What did she tell you?”
“Several things,” I replied. “She alleges that you were not Arnold’s friend—but his fiercest enemy.”
“She has told you that!” he cried bitterly. “And what else has that woman said against me?”
“Nothing much.”