She started again at hearing the name.
"Yes," she replied at once. "Who told you?"
"I discovered it for myself," I replied. "Who was the girl—tell me?"
"A friend of Digby Kemsley's."
"A foreigner, of course?"
"Yes, Belgian, I believe."
"From Brussels, eh?"
"Perhaps. I don't know for certain."
"And she learned some great secret of Digby's, which was the motive of the crime," I suggested.
But my love only shook her pretty head blankly, saying—"I don't know. Perhaps she knew something to his detriment."