“But he also heard you refuse, no doubt?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling and colouring a little; “he heard me refuse in the most positive way; but my refusal provoked Mr. Tremaine to an intemperance of language which Mr. Drysdale resented and which he thought I should have resented, too. He demanded that I explain to him Mr. Tremaine’s position, and I promised to do so on the very evening he—he stayed away from the house. His staying away offended me deeply.”
Godfrey had listened with intent eyes and a quick nod from time to time.
“There is only one point lacking,” he said. “Did Tremaine know of your intention to tell Drysdale the story?”
“Yes—he even charged me with that intention.”
“Ah—he had listened at a keyhole, probably.”
“He said that Mr. Drysdale himself had told him. I might add, Mr. Godfrey, that I met Mr. Drysdale and the officers in the hall that morning, as they were going away, and I implored him to tell them where he had been. He answered me with such insult and contempt that I thought he must be mad.”
“And no wonder! You were playing at cross-purposes. I presume, then, that it was not you who wrote Mr. Drysdale this note?” and he handed her the crumpled sheet of paper he had fished from Drysdale’s waste-basket.
She took it with trembling hand; already beginning to suspect, perhaps, what it contained.
“‘Be at the pergola at nine,’” she read. “‘If I am late, wait for me. G.’ I certainly never wrote
