self. I give you my word that in less than five minutes the water will be boiling.”
She stamped her foot; rage certainly became her.
“You keep talking about your tea, when Pollie’s killed!”
“Killed—Miss Purvis! You don’t mean that Miss Blyth is—killed?”
“She is!—or something awful—and worse!”
“But”—I placed the kettle on the stove to free my hand—“let me understand you plainly. Do you wish to be taken literally when you say that Miss Blyth is—killed?”
“If she isn’t she will be soon.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to be a little plainer. Where is Miss Blyth?”
“She’s in one of Bluebeard’s Chambers!”
I began to wonder if her mind was wandering.
“I’m afraid that I still don’t”
“That’s the name she gave them. In that dreadful house in Camford Street there are two rooms locked up, and Pollie’s in one,”
“I see.” I did not, though, at the same time, I fancied that I began to perceive a dim glimmer of light. “But if, as you say, the rooms were locked, how did she get in, and what happened to her when she was in?”
In reply Miss Purvis poured out a series of disjointed statements which I experienced some difficulty in following, and more in reconciling. As I listened, in spite of her manifold attractions, I could not but feel that if she should figure in the witness box, in a case in which I was concerned, I would rather that she gave evidence for the other side.
“That house was full of wickedness!”
“Indeed. In what sense?”
“There’s a woman in it!”
“A woman? There is a woman? Then that’s all right.”
