“The fact is, Mr Kemball,” she said, as I seated myself and bent towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her identity, “I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine.”
“Who is that?” I asked quickly.
“Mr Melvill Arnold.”
Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady Lettice.
“Yes. It is true that I knew Mr Arnold,” I said slowly.
“It is about him that I have ventured to call. I live near Bath, but I motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you,” she said. “I heard from a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold’s death, and that he entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate. It was an honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody.”
Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was “pumping” me, I knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my replies.
Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.
I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so completely hidden.
I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness, and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet, from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the police.