“My brother told you that!” she cried. “He has told you everything!”
“He has told me nothing,” replied the old man coldly. “I only ask whether you deny that she made a statement.”
The girl hesitated.
“She certainly spoke to me,” she admitted at last. “I was her most intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what was most uppermost in her mind.”
“And what was that?”
“I regret,” she replied, “that I cannot repeat it; Mr Statham.”
“What! You refuse to say anything?”
“Under compulsion—yes,” was her firm answer. “I did not know,” she added, “that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this manner.”
“Or you would not have come, eh?” he laughed. “Well, my dear young lady, you apparently don’t quite realise how very important it is to me to discover Doctor Petrovitch. I have asked you here in order to beg a favour of you. I may be rough and matter-of-fact, but I trust you will pardon my apparent rudeness.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Mr Statham,” was her quiet, dignified response. “My reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is that I have nothing to say.”