Again she sighed, but at last said, “The truth has already been forced upon you, I should think.”
“In what manner?”
“By the death of your friend, Dudley Ogle,” she replied, in a half whisper, the strange look of almost murderous hatred again showing in her eyes.
“Well,” I said, “I can see nothing in that tragic incident to lead me to any conclusion that Ella is my enemy.”
“Love is blind, of course,” she answered, rather contemptuously. “Your blindness extends apparently even to the theft of the important dispatch entrusted to your care.”
Her words amazed me, for, with the exception of Lord Warnham, the Marquis of Maybury, and Frayling at Scotland Yard, no living person knew of the theft of the secret convention.
“How, pray, are you aware that any document has been stolen?” I asked quickly, my mind at once filled with suspicion. The fact that this girl was a Russian was in itself sufficient to place me at once upon my guard.
“I have heard so,” she answered, with a mysterious smile.
“Well, and what do you allege?” I inquired, keeping my eyes fixed upon her.
“Allege!” she cried. “Why, nothing. I have merely asked you a simple question, whether you are aware of the past of Ella Laing, and you have not answered. You are silent.”