“If she does, then you may rely upon it she will not tell it to you, but substitute some romantic fiction or other,” he laughed. “It is really astounding to find you so confident in her honesty.”
Paul Verblioudovitch’s attack of ill-temper vanished as he threw himself back in his chair and showed all his white teeth in a hearty guffaw.
“I am not confident,” I declared. “I have assisted the girl to obtain her freedom, therefore I cannot see that she can have any object in wilfully deceiving me. Her promise to reveal the truth regarding Ella in exchange for the passport is but a mere business arrangement.”
“You apparently suspect the woman you love of some terrible crime or other,” Paul said, after a pause. “I can’t understand you, Geoffrey, I must confess.”
“If you were in my place, fondly loving a woman who was enveloped in bewildering mystery, you would, I have no doubt, act quite as strangely as myself,” I exclaimed, smiling grimly. “I only want to discover light in this chaos of perplexity; then only shall I be content.”
“But if circumstances have so conspired to produce a problem, why not remain patient until its natural elucidation is effected? The police, when baffled, frequently adopt that course, and often very effectually, too.”
“Truth to tell, old fellow,” I said confidentially, “I am anxious to marry Ella, but cannot until I have ascertained some substantial truth.”
“Of what do you suspect her—of a crime?” he inquired, smiling.
I paused.
“Yes,” I answered gravely, “of a crime.”