“The one main point we have first to decide, Charlie,” he said at last, standing at the window and gazing thoughtfully down into the narrow London street, “is whether or not then has been foul play.”
Rolfe made no reply, a circumstance which caused him to turn and look straight into his friend’s face. He saw a change there.
His countenance was blanched; but whether by fear of the loss of the woman he loved, or by a guilty knowledge, Max knew not.
“Marion can tell us,” he answered at last. “But she refuses.”
“You, her brother, can surely obtain the truth from her?”
“Not when you, her lover, fail,” Charlie responded, his brows knit deeply.
“But a moment ago you said you had a clue?”
“I think I have one. It is only a surmise.”
“And in what direction does it trend?”
“Towards foul play,” he said hoarsely.