Mrs Parham was in the drawing-room, arranging some flowers in a vase, and turned to me quickly when I was announced.
“Forgive me for calling, madam, but you will, of course, recollect me,” I said. “I was in this neighbourhood and thought I would pay my respects and ascertain how you were.”
“Ah! of course,” she exclaimed. “I remember you perfectly—on that night—that night when they came here,” she faltered, rather tamely, I thought, and she motioned me to a chair and seated herself.
“The poor girl has, of course, been buried,” I said. “I saw accounts of the inquest in the papers.”
“Yes. They brought in a verdict of murder, but up to the present the police have discovered nothing, it appears. Ah!” she sighed. “They are so very slow. It’s monstrous that such a thing could happen here, in the centre of a populated district. Out in the lonely country it would be quite another thing. I should have left the house at once, only I feared that my husband would be annoyed. He is abroad, you know.”
“And have you had no word from him?”
“Not a line. I’m expecting a letter from India by every mail. He is in India, I know, as he told one of his City friends that he was going. He sailed on the Caledonia from Marseilles nearly five weeks ago. He may have written me from Paris and the letter miscarried. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
I recollected that I had never given her a card, therefore she very fortunately did not know my name, and I did not intend that she should, if concealment were at all possible.
There was a mystery about that house and its occupants which caused me to act with circumspection.
I looked around the room. Nothing had been altered save that the couch upon which they had laid the dead girl was now gone, and the corner of the carpet which had been torn up had been re-nailed down. The piano at which my hostess had sat when attacked was still in its place, and the table whereon had stood the photograph which I had stolen still contained that same silver and bric-à-brac.