“What was his objection against summoning the doctor?”
“Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past.”
“And after three o’clock you retired to bed?”
“It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn—quite unlike his usual self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o’clock next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then—then—just after ten o’clock last night—Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling him of the—the awful discovery at Titmarsh?”
Her story made one fact entirely plain—namely, that Shaw, whatever he might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.
“Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?” I asked. “Did he not tell the doctors?”
“No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with poor Guy’s death, he said.”
She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black, which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.
I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.
Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father. She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and she was certainly not deceiving me.