As Mrs Parham was speaking the door suddenly opened, and the dark-eyed young girl whom I had watched on the previous night came gaily into the room. The instant I saw her I recognised that she was a lady. In a clean, fresh cotton blouse and neat tailor-made skirt she presented a much smarter appearance them in that cheap black coat and skirt as she stood in the muddy roadway. The green stone bracelet was still upon her wrist, the one object which alone had showed me that she was no shop assistant.
“This is Miss O’Hara,” my hostess exclaimed, introducing us; “she has kindly come to stay with me until my husband’s return.”
And as we bowed to each other I saw that the newcomer had no previous knowledge of me.
“I was present at the unfortunate affair,” I said. “Mrs Parham must have been very upset by it.”
“She was,” declared the girl, in a quiet, refined voice. “But she’s getting over it now. The worst shock was the maid’s death. It was a most dastardly piece of business, and moreover, no one knows with what motive it was done.”
“To get possession of something which Mr Parham had concealed here,” I said.
“That may be, but as far as Mrs Parham is aware they took nothing beyond a few of her husband’s private papers.”
“Nothing except a photograph that stood on the table over there,” remarked my hostess.
“A photograph!” I exclaimed, in pretended surprise. “Of whom?”
“Of a friend,” was the vague response, and I saw that the two women looked at each other meaningly.