“Yes, you said that. And you said it as though you meant it. Very few people, Mr. Clement, in this world have ever sincerely wished to help me.”
“I can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange.”
“It is true. Most people—most men, at any rate, are out for their own hand.”
There was a bitterness in her voice.
I did not answer, and she went on:
“Sit down, won’t you?”
I obeyed, and she took a chair facing me. She hesitated a moment and then began to speak very slowly and thoughtfully, seeming to weigh each word as she uttered it.
“I am in a very peculiar position, Mr. Clement, and I want to ask your advice. That is, I want to ask your advice as to what I should do next. What is past is past and cannot be undone. You understand?”
Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face:
“Oh! Please, ma’am, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please.”
There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrange’s face did not change. Only her eyes very slowly closed and opened again. She seemed to swallow once or twice, then she said in exactly the same clear, calm voice:
“Show him in, Hilda.”
I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand.