"
Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured
voice was suave as ever.
"Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux," he said. "You gave me a strong
hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting
chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about the
train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was directly
concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within the past
fortnight a _rapprochement_ between my wife and myself became possible.
It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have her letters.
Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it that they _have_
been found?"
"Yes," said Furneaux.
"Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She
saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was
palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of
winning the man she loved--not me, her husband, but that handsome
dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to
determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead.
Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her
one-time lover and a charming village girl.
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