“But they didn’t know the secret of the spring, for they prised it open.”
I placed my hand in my overcoat pocket, and it came in contact with the portrait which I had succeeded in taking—the picture of the dead unknown.
Why had it been kept in such a prominent position in her room? I longed to question her, but at that moment was unable.
The mystery of the murderous attack in which the maid had lost her life; the mystery of that tall, thin man who crept across the apartment; the mystery of the theft; the mystery of the human eye, were all enigmas utterly beyond solution.
I took Laking aside and obtained a promise from him not to explain the circumstances under which we had met. Then to Mrs Parham I introduced myself later as a casual passer-by who had been alarmed by the startling discovery. I did this because I intended to call again and make the acquaintance of her husband.
Half an hour later, after all inquiry of Mrs Parham had failed to elicit a single fact regarding any person who might have a motive for the outrage and robbery, I left the house, and walked down the dark, deserted suburban thoroughfare accompanied by the police inspector, who was on his way back to the station to telegraph the curious facts to Scotland Yard.
“Well?” I asked, when we were out in the roadway, “and what do you make of the affair?”
“What do I think? Why, the lady is lying. She knows who did it, but fears to tell us the truth. There was something hidden under the floor which those people intended to get, and got it. Mark me! She dare not speak, otherwise she’ll ruin her own reputation. When we fathom the mystery of to-night it will be found to be a very interesting one, depend upon it.”
“Then you really suspect her?” I remarked. “Yes, I suspect her. She has some secret from her husband—and she fears that through this robbery he may learn the truth.”
“You know Mr Parham, perhaps—I mean you know something about him?”