"Lionel Wray," she blurted out, feeling that further resistance was useless, in view of the knowledge I possessed.
"He was enticed here and robbed—as others have been," I said, looking straight into her face. "Who is your male friend? Not that boy who has just left you," and then, in order to emphasize my coolness, I took out a cigarette and lit it.
"My friend is dead," she said. "He died suddenly in Paris a week ago—the result of an accident."
"A bad accident?"
"No, a slight scratch."
"And his was the master-mind, eh?"
"He was a medical man, like yourself. Dr. More d'Escombe," responded the old woman, looking straight at me.
"And he killed himself by accident—eh? Confess it."
"Yes," she responded. "That is unfortunately the truth."
"And you are now in need of a friend?"
"I am."
"Some other person knows the secret of this house," I said. "Who is he?"
I was wondering from what source that tempting bundle of notes had been derived,
