Ah! The puzzling problem was maddening me. In my investigations I now found myself in a cul-de-sac from which there seemed no escape. The net, cleverly woven without a doubt, was slowly closing about my poor darling, now so pale, and anxious, and trembling.
Had she not already threatened to take her own life at first sign of suspicion being cast upon her by the police!
Was that not in itself, alas! a sign that her secret was a guilty one?
I knew not what to do, or how to act.
I suppose my hostess had been absent for about five minutes when the door suddenly re-opened, and she entered.
"When we were interrupted, Mrs. Petre," I said, as she advanced towards me, "I was asking you a plain question. Please give me a plain reply. You and Phrida Shand are enemies, are you not?"
"Well, we are not exactly friends," she laughed, "after all that has occurred. I think I told you that in London."
"I remember all that you told me," I replied. "But I want to know the true position, if—whether we are friends, or enemies? For myself, it matters not. I will be your friend with just as great a satisfaction as I will be your enemy. Now, let us understand each other. I have told you, I'm a man of business."
The woman, clever and resourceful, smiled sweetly, and in a calm voice replied:
"Really, Mr. Royle, I don't see why, after all, we should be enemies, that is, if what you tell me is the positive truth, that you owe my friend Digby no ill-will."