“I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your friend.”
“Ah, yes!” she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the tragedy. “And they know that—do they? Then they will probably endeavour to find me, eh?”
“Most probably.”
“Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then,” she remarked, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder if they will discover me here?”
“I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one.”
“I hope they’ll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least.”
“The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up,” I remarked.
“Yes. But how did you know?”
“A friend told me,” was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been in Rome.
“He told you my name?”