"Mrs. Petre," I said, "I wonder if you will answer me a single question, one which does not really affect the situation much. Indeed, as we are, I hope, friends, I ask it more out of curiosity than anything else."
"Well, what is it?" she asked, regarding me strangely.
"I want to know whether, being a friend of Digby's, you have ever met or ever heard of a certain young lady living in Kensington named Phrida Shand."
The effect of my words was almost electrical. She sprung towards me, with fire in her big, dark eyes.
"Phrida Shand!" she cried wildly, her white-gloved hands again clenched. "Phrida Shand! You know that woman, eh? You know her, Mr. Royle. Is she a friend of yours?—or—or is she your enemy? Your friend, perhaps, because she is pretty. Oh, yes!" she laughed, hysterically. "Oh, yes! Of course, she is your friend. If she is—then curse her, Mr. Royle—invoke all the curses of hell upon her, as she so richly deserves!"
And from her lips came a peal of laughter that was little short of demoniacal, while I stood glaring at her in blank dismay.
What did she mean? Aye, what, indeed?