“And—and these gentlemen?” Edna inquired, glancing at us, puzzled.
“They are present to hear what you have to say to me.”
She was taken aback.
“I—I have nothing to say to your Highness,” the woman faltered. “I merely wished to know whether, when in London, I might call.”
“Then listen,” exclaimed Mabel. “The truth is known, and it is useless for you to further conceal it. If you have nothing to say, Mr Hickman will at once call in the police, and I shall charge you with the murder of the Prince.”
“The murder of the Prince!” she gasped, white to the lips. “I—did not commit the crime. I can prove that I didn’t!”
Her hands were trembling, and she stood beside the table, steadying herself by it. There was a haunted look in those cold grey eyes. Our sudden descent upon her had taken her utterly by surprise.
“Then let us hear your statement,” my love said in a hard voice quite unusual to her. “Let it be the truth, or I shall charge you now, at once, with the capital offence. The Prince was murdered in my house, and with your knowledge. Do you deny that?”
“No,” she cried hoarsely, “I do not deny it.”
A long silence ensued. The woman Grainger—or Slade, as she was known there—hung her head.