“I am at a loss what to think,” was her response. “Sometimes I believe he is working in my interests, while at others I entertain a vague suspicion that he is my enemy.”
“As he is Marie Lejeune’s,” I added, looking her straight in the face.
“Her enemy—why, he’s her best friend. Their interests are identical.”
“I think not,” was my calm reply. And in a few brief sentences I related to her what had transpired at the lonely Northamptonshire farm, how a murderous attack had been made upon “Miss Alice,” as she was there called, and how the whole of the mysterious party had afterwards made good their escape from the neighbourhood.
“This is certainly surprising to me,” she declared. “Whom do you suppose attacked her?”
“Pink’s idea is that it was Logan.”
“But Pink surely knows nothing about my connexion with those people?” she exclaimed apprehensively.
“Nothing. Up to the present there is no suspicion whatsoever that you were acquainted with the dead man. Indeed his name is still unknown.”
I recollected how the young fellow wore her portrait in his ring, and fell to wondering again if he were actually her secret lover, and if he had been the victim of another’s jealousy.
She certainly escaped from the Hall that night and met some one in the park—but whom was an utter mystery. Yet there still sounded in my ears that scream I had heard—the scream that was certainly hers and which came from the scene of the tragedy. If she were not the actual assassin, then she had of a certainty borne witness of it—and had been appalled by that terrible dénouement.