Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.
“In such matters I please myself, Monsieur,” she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men. They said nothing.
“When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?”
“As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife’s compartment just before the train drew in to Lyons. There was a look on his face—ah! at the moment I could not understand it—a look haunted and terrible. I shall never forget it.”
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.
“Quite so,” said M. Carrège.
“Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons, then—then I knew!”
“And still—you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle,” said the Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in the role she was playing.
“Shall I betray my lover?” she asked. “Ah no; do not ask a woman to do that.”
“Yet now—” hinted M. Caux.
“Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in silence? …”