“Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal affairs.”
“That was over a month ago, eh?”
“Perhaps six weeks.”
I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery.
We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply.
I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice.
The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime.
Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.
“If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I’ll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be,” he said.
I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club.