“You are quite a real detective,” she drawled. “Can you tell me anything more?”
“Save that you drove yourself and that the car was a two-seater, with a self-starting arrangement, I can tell you nothing.” She laughed.
“I am afraid you have been all the way to Great Bradley making inquiries,” she mocked him. “Everybody there knows I drive a car, and everybody who takes the trouble to find out will learn that it is such a car as you describe.”
“But I have not taken that trouble,” said T. B. with a smile. “I am curious to know, Lady Constance, what you were doing in the house at that time. I do not for one moment suspect that you shot these men; indeed, I have plenty of evidence that the shots were fired from some other place than the area.”
“Suppose I say,” she countered, “that I was giving a party that night, that I did not leave my house.”
“If you said that,” he interrupted, “you would be contradicting something you have already said; namely, that you did leave the house, a journey in the middle of the night as far as I can gather, and evidently one which was of considerable moment.”
She looked past him out of the window, her face set, her brows knit in a thoughtful frown.
“I can tell you a lot of things that possibly you do not know,” she said, turning to him suddenly. “I can explain my return to Great Bradley very simply. There is a friend of mine, or rather a friend of my friend,” she corrected herself, “who has recently returned from West Africa. I received news that he had gone to Great Bradley to carry a message from someone who was very dear to me.”
There was a little tremor in her voice, and, perfect actress as she might be, thought T. B., there was little doubt that here she was speaking the truth.
“It was necessary for me that I should not miss this visitor,” said Lady Constance, quietly, “though I do not wish to make capital out of that happening.”
“I must again interrupt you,” said T. B. easily. “The person you are referring to was Dr. Thomas Goldworthy, who has recently returned from an expedition organized by the London School of Tropical Medicine, in Congoland; but your story does not quite tally with the known fact that Dr. Goldworthy arrived in Great Bradley the night before your party, and you interviewed him then. He brought with him a wooden box which he had collected at the Custom House store at the East India Docks. An attempt was made by two burglars to obtain possession of that box and its contents, a fact that interested me considerably, since a friend of mine is engaged upon that somewhat mysterious case of attempted burglary. But that is confusing the issue. These are the facts.” He tapped the table slowly as he enumerated them. “Dr. Goldworthy brought this box to Great Bradley, telegraphed to you that he was coming, and you interviewed him. It was subsequent to the interview that you returned to London for your party. Really, Lady Constance, your memory is rather bad.”
She faced him suddenly resolute, defiant.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “You do not accuse me of the murder of your two friends; you cannot even accuse me of the attempt on Mr. Farrington. You know so much of my history,” she went on, speaking rapidly, “that you may as well know more. Years ago, Mr. Smith, I was engaged to a man, and we were passionately fond of one another. His name was George Doughton.”
“The explorer,” nodded T. B.
“He went abroad,” she continued, “suddenly and unexpectedly, breaking off our engagement for no reason that I could ascertain, and all my letters to him, all my telegrams, and every effort I made to get in touch with him during the time he was in Africa were without avail. For four years I had no communication from him, no explanation of his extraordinary behaviour, and then suddenly I received news of his death. At first it was thought he had died as a result of fever, but Dr. Goldworthy who came to see me convinced me that George Doughton was poisoned by somebody who was interested in his death.”
Her voice trembled, but with an effort she recovered herself.
“All these years I have not forgotten him, his face has never left my mind, he has been as precious to me as though he were by my side in the flesh. Love dies very hard in women of my age, Mr. Smith,” she said, “and love injured and outraged as mine has been developed all the tiger passion which women can nurture. I have learnt for the first time why George Doughton went out to his death. He used to tell me,” she said, as she rose from her chair, and paced the room slowly, “that when you are shooting wild beasts you should always shoot the female of the species first, because if she is left to the last she will avenge her slaughtered mate. There is a terrible time coming for somebody,” she said, speaking deliberately.
“For whom?” asked T. B.
She smiled.
“I think you know too much already, Mr. Smith,” she said; “you must find out all the rest in
