“Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him.”
“But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be.”
“Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret.”
I held my breath. What could he know?
“Well?” I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.
“I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago—I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence—I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards.”
“Well, and what do you make out from that incident?” I asked.
“That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed him to be on the Continent.”
“But the disguise?”
“Ah! there you are! Surely a gentleman doesn’t go about in shabby clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister motive. The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was making his way to pay a secret visit.”