It was Johnson’s turn to feel embarrassment now. Her fine eyes looked at him unwaveringly, and there was just the suspicion of a contemptuous smile on her beautiful face.
“I knew you were close friends once,” he stammered. “It struck me you might know something—he might have confided something to you.”
He broke down, and there was a long pause. For a space Lady Wrenwyck turned her face away, and looked out on the sea front. Suddenly she divined his errand, and a low ripple of laughter escaped her.
“I think I see the meaning of it all now. You have picked up some ancient rumours of my friendship with Mr Monkton, and you think he is with me here; that I am responsible for his disappearance.”
The detective was too embarrassed to answer her. He was thankful that she had seen things so quickly.
“I don’t know why I should admit anything to you,” she went on, in a contemptuous voice, “but I will admit this much. There was a time when I was passionately in love with him. At that time, if he had lifted up his little finger I would have followed him to the end of the world. He never asked me—he had water in his veins, not blood. That was in the long ago. To-day he is nothing to me—barely a memory. Go back to London, my good man. You will not find Reginald Monkton here.”
Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarrassment.
“Who then is Mr Williams?” he asked doggedly.
“Oh, you know that, do you?—you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an assumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you. It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength.”
Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose.