“Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.”
“How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.”
“I am clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven't got any imagination.”
“I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back today—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.”
“Who let him in?”
“I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.”
“Does she know what has happened?”
“I have told her nothing.”
The young man nodded, and rose to his feet.
“And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.”
“Then you advise me to ring up the police?”
“Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.”
Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him.
“By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.”
62
