“Certainly,” she said—not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room—a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.
When we were seated, I began without preamble—
“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”
“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that—well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”
“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”
She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.
“Had he any enemies—any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.
“Yes.”
“And you suspect them of—”
“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”