“It is well spoken. My sister chose to marry Samuel Weatherley, and the women of our race have been famous throughout history for their constancy. Must you, my dear young friend, go and hide your head in the sand because a woman is beautiful and chooses to be kind to you? Fenella values your friendship. You have done her a service and you have done me a service. A few nights ago it amused me to feed your suspicions. This morning I feel otherwise. We do not choose, either of us, that you should think of us quite in the way you are thinking now.”
Arnold hesitated no longer then. He came and stood by his visitor.
“Since you insist, then,” he declared, “I will ask you the questions which I should have asked your sister. That is what you desire?”
“Assuredly,” Sabatini assented.
“First then, who killed Rosario?”
“There is a certain directness about your methods,” Sabatini said suavely, “which commends itself to me. No one could mistake you for anything but an Englishman.”
“Tell me who killed Rosario!” Arnold repeated.
“As you will,” Sabatini replied. “Rosario was murdered by a Portuguese Jew—a man of the name of Isaac Lalonde.”
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED
Arnold stood quite still for several moments. The shock seemed to have deprived him even of the power of speech. Sabatini watched him curiously.
“Is it my fancy,” he inquired, “or is the name familiar to you?”
“The name is familiar,” Arnold confessed.
Sabatini, for a moment, appeared to be puzzled.
“Lalonde,” he repeated to himself. “Why, Lalonde,” he added, looking up quickly, “was the name of the young lady whom you brought with you to Bourne End. An uncommon name, too.”
“Her uncle,” Arnold declared; “the same man, beyond a doubt. The police tried to arrest him two days ago, and he escaped. You might have read of it in the paper. It was spoken of as an attempt to capture an anarchist. Lalonde fired at them when he made his escape.”
“It is a small world,” he admitted. “I know all about Isaac Lalonde, but I am very sorry indeed to hear that the young lady is connected with him. She seemed—I hope you will forgive me—to speak as though she lived in straitened circumstances. Do you mind telling me whether this event is likely to prove of inconvenience to her?”
Arnold shook his head.
“I am making arrangements to find her another apartment,” he said. “We have been through some very dark times together. I feel that I have the right to do everything that is necessary. I have no one else to support.”
“If one might be permitted,” he began, with what was, for him, a considerable amount of diffidence,—
Arnold interposed a little brusquely.