“And you have not been there since?”
“No. I never went there. You see, it would probably cause a lot of talk in the village.”
“Doubtless,” said Colonel Melchett dryly. “Where were you in the habit of seeing Mr. Redding, if I may ask?”
She blushed.
“He used to come up to the Hall. He was painting Lettice. We—we often met in the woods afterwards.”
Colonel Melchett nodded.
“Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was suddenly broken. “It’s so awful—having to tell you all these things. And—and there wasn’t anything wrong about it. There wasn’t—indeed, there wasn’t. We were just friends. We—we couldn’t help caring for each other.”
She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haydock, and that softhearted man stepped forward.
“I really think, Melchett,” he said, “that Mrs. Protheroe has had enough. She’s had a great shock—in more ways than one.”
The Chief Constable nodded.
“There is really nothing more I want to ask you, Mrs. Protheroe,” he said. “Thank you for answering my questions so frankly.”
“Then—then I may go?”
“Is your wife in?” asked Haydock. “I think Mrs. Protheroe would like to see her.”
“Yes,” I said, “Griselda is in. You’ll find her in the drawing-room.”