“Yes—and his wife is in utter ignorance of who and what he is. She lives at Sydenham, and believes him to be something in the City. I know the poor woman quite well.”
It was upon the tip of my tongue to make inquiry about Miss O’Hara, but by so doing I saw I should admit having acted the spy. I longed to put some leading questions to her concerning the dead unknown in Charlton Wood, but in view of Eric’s terrible denunciation how could I?
Where was Eric? I asked her, but she declared that she was in ignorance.
“Some time ago,” she said, “I heard that he was in Paris. He left England suddenly, I believe.”
“Why?”
“The real reason I don’t know. I only know from a friend who saw him one day sitting before a café in the Boulevard des Italiens.”
“Your friend did not speak to him?” I inquired quickly.
“No.”
“Then it might have been a mistake. The person might, I mean, have merely resembled Eric Domville. Was your informant an intimate friend?”
“A friend—and also an enemy.”