“If I had, I certainly should not have accepted his invitation to come here on a motor-tour,” was my quick reply.
“And the girl? You mean to say that you have no suspicion of her offence?”
“Her offence!” I cried. “Tell me—I beg of you to tell me!—what allegation there is against her.”
“Ah, my dear m’sieur, of that you will know soon enough,” replied the detective, again stroking his beard. “I fear that, if your ignorance of the truth is not feigned, the revelations forthcoming will—well, greatly astonish you.”
“But surely Mademoiselle is not a criminal!” I cried, staring at him in dismay.
“Wait and hear the evidence against her.”
“I will not believe it.”
“Ah! because you are enamoured of her—eh, Monsieur Kemball?” exclaimed the great detective, with a shrewd twinkle in his large brown eyes. “A man is always loath to believe that his well-beloved can do wrong. Bien! I urge you to wait and see what the revelations bring forth—to carefully weigh over the hideous story before giving further thought to her.”
“I need no advice. Monsieur,” I protested angrily. “If you make allegations, you should surely tell me their nature.”
“That is for you to discover,” he answered, with a crafty smile. “You have refused to assist me; therefore I, in turn, refuse to satisfy your curiosity.”