Part 29 (1/2)
”Ah! Then you didn't recognise the voice?”
”How could I recognise the voice of a person unknown to me?” I asked.
”I mean that the cry was a man's?”
”No--a woman's.”
”What?” he exclaimed, taking his cigar from his lips, and staring at me with a hardness at the corners of his mouth. ”Are you quite sure of that? It isn't in the evidence I've read.”
”I know it isn't,” I said. ”There are several things known to me that are not in the depositions.”
”And what are they?”
”Matters which concern only myself,” I replied. ”I'm endeavouring to obtain a solution of the mystery. The police have failed, so I am making independent inquiries on my own account.”
His brows again contracted slightly, and I saw that what I said was to him the reverse of welcome.
”And what have you discovered?” he asked with a dark look which struck me as curious. ”You have surely good scope for your efforts in such an affair. Lord Stanchester is exceedingly anxious that the truth should be revealed. He asked me my opinion--knowing my keen interest in mysteries of all sorts.”
”And what is your opinion?”
”Shall I tell you, Mr Woodhouse?” he asked with a mysterious smile, bending earnestly towards me and lowering his voice. ”Well, my own opinion is that you yourself know more about it than any one.”
”Me!” I cried, looking at the fellow. ”You don't imply that I'm guilty of the murder, do you?”
”Oh!--not at all--not at all?” he hastened to a.s.sure me. ”I intended to convey that you are in possession of certain facts unknown to the police. Do you understand me?”
”Not exactly,” I replied. ”If you suggest that I know the dead man's real name, then I admit it. His name was Wingfield--Hugh Wingfield.”
”What!” he gasped, his sinister countenance turning pale, as he stood aghast. ”You know that! Who told you?”
”I found out for myself,” I answered, looking him full in the face. ”I discovered it by the same means as I discovered other things--that the dead man wore on his finger the portrait of Lady Lolita, and--”
”And what else?” he asked breathlessly. ”Be frank with me as I will, in a moment, be frank with you. Did you discover anything in his pockets-- any letter--or anything written in numbers--a cipher?”
”I did.”
”Then show it to me,” he urged quickly. ”Let me see it.”
”I shall do nothing of the sort!” was my firm response. ”What is written there is my own affair.”
”Of course. But you can't read it without the key,” he declared with a defiant laugh.
”I desire no a.s.sistance,” I said briefly.
”But if I mistake not, Mr Woodhouse, you entertain affection towards Lady Lolita--and--well, your affection is reciprocated--at least so she tells me,” he added with a slight sneer, I thought.
”And what, pray, does that concern the paper found in the dead man's pocket?” I inquired resentfully. ”I know rather more of the affair than you conjecture,” I added. ”And as you wish me to speak plainly I may as well remark that I have certainly no confidence in the person who is guest in this house under the name of Smeeton, and whose real name is Richard Keene.”
The man drew back with a start and stood glaring at me blankly, open-mouthed, his eyes starting from his head.