As he sat before me, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped as he chatted, I looked into his face and wondered what were the inner workings of his ingenious mind. He made no mention of his call at that obscure hotel in Lambeth in search of Tibbie, but merely expressed a fervent hope that the jewellery which she had carried with her when she left on her midnight motor-drive had not been the cause of any attempt upon her by malefactors.
In order to watch his attitude I suddenly exclaimed,—
“That affair in Charlton Wood seems still a mystery. And yet I hear,” I added, making a bold shot, “that the police have at last found a clue.”
His countenance remained perfectly unchanged. He merely responded,—
“I hope they have. It was a dastardly thing. The poor fellow must have been shot treacherously—murdered in cold blood. Jack is most anxious to find the culprit, and I don’t wonder. It isn’t nice to have a murder committed upon one’s own estate.”
“It’s curious that the man has not yet been identified,” I said, regarding him keenly.
“And has it not also struck you as strange that Tibbie should suddenly disappear on the night of the murder?” he asked, his eyes fixed upon mine.
“No,” I replied, quite unconcernedly. “I had never given that a thought. It is curious, now that you recall it. A mere coincidence, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, pouring me out a glass of still Moselle. His air of refinement was irritating.
Then, after a brief silence, he said,—