“A pretty woman may often unconsciously fascinate many men before meeting the man she marries,” I said, as calmly as I could.
“Unconsciously, yes,” she answered. “But there are some who use the beauty that their Maker has bestowed upon them to allure their victims.”
“You anticipate I am doomed, then?” I laughed.
She regarded me gravely for an instant, then said, in a voice quiet and low,—
“I do not think—I know. The mysterious death that overtook your friend Dudley Ogle should have overtaken you instead. But for an amazing coincidence, by which your life was saved and his taken, you would, ere this, have been in your grave.”
“And my assassin would have been the woman I love, I suppose, you are going to tell me?” I observed, amused at her melodramatic manner and the absurdity of the idea.
“No, I leave you to discover the truth,” she answered, arching her dark brows, a shadow of annoyance crossing her refined features at that moment.
“You are apparently well acquainted with Miss Laing,” I said, after a long pause.
“I know her,” she admitted abruptly.
“Then, as I refuse to listen further to any charges against her of which you can give me no corroboration, it may be best for me to bring her here to hear your allegations, even at risk of creating a scene. You said you intended to render me a service, and by facing her you can.”