She asked him to be seated, and then sat down herself, with a demurely expectant face.
“You want to question me?” she said.
“If you please,” Lane returned courteously. “And, Miss Cutler, do not look on me as a prying inquisitor.”
“Not at all—why should I?” she returned, her big violet eyes expressing the most innocent surprise.
Lane was disconcerted. He hated to acknowledge it to himself, but he was bothered by those eyes. Either the girl was absolutely in the dark concerning the mystery he was trying to solve, or she knew more than any one else. He was not sure which.
He resolved on a bold stroke.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, bending forward and speaking in a low tone, “do you know Mr. Locke’s secret?”
At least he had got under her guard.
“His secret!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know he had one! Oh, you mean do I know where he is?”
“No; I don’t mean that at all. I mean do you know what he is—who he is?”
“I know Mr. Locke for a good friend, an artist, and an honorable gentleman. If you mean do I know his family or his antecedents—I do not. There was a man who claimed to be his brother—but I believe the police discredited his story.”
She was again in command of herself—but Lane was sure that his sudden question had disturbed her. He was sure that she did know that Locke had a secret—a big one—and he was equally sure that she was as ignorant of what it was as he was himself—perhaps more so.
He concluded that the way to manage her was by sudden surprising questions or statements, and he watched her closely as he said: “You call him an honorable man, and yet you suspect him of the murder of Mrs. Barham!”
