“No. If I did, you would accuse me of selfish motives,” she said, fixing her dark eyes upon me.
Could a woman with a Madonna-like countenance be actually guilty of murder? It seemed incredible. And yet her manner was that of a woman haunted by the terrible secret of her crime. At that moment she was seeking, by ingenious means, to conceal the truth regarding the past. She feared that my intimate friendship with the great physician might result in her unmasking.
“I can’t see that selfish motives enter into this affair at all,” I remarked. “Whatever you tell me, Ethelwynn, is, I know, for my own benefit. Therefore you should at least be explicit.”
“I can’t be more explicit.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no right to utter a libel without being absolutely certain of the facts.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” I said, rather puzzled.
“I mean that at present the information I have is vague,” she replied. “But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you must dissociate yourself from him, Ralph.”
“You have only suspicions?”
“Only suspicions.”