Dutch grisaille beloved of fifteenth century illuminators of
manuscripts. His silence was disturbing, almost irritating, his manner
singularly calm.

These negative indications conveyed absolutely nothing to Theydon, who
for the second time in their brief acquaintance found himself in the
ridiculous position of one explaining a fault rather than, as he
imagined, arraigning a man under suspicion.

"So we had better dispense with ambiguities, Mr. Forbes," he went on,
speaking with a precision that sounded oddly in his own ears. "It was
you who called on Mrs. Lester on Monday night, you who posted the
letter she wrote to Miss Beale at Iffley, Oxfordshire, you for whom
the police are now searching. I have contrived thus far to keep your
secret, but the situation is passing out of my control. I would help
you if I could--"

"Why?"

The monosyllable, sharp and insistent, was disconcerting as the
unexpected crack of a whip, but Theydon answered valiantly:

"Because of the monstrous absurdities with which Fate has plagued me
during the past two days, I appeal now for outspokenness, so I set an
example. Had it not been for your daughter's remarkably attractive
appearance I should not, in all likelihood, have given a second glance
at my neighbors on the steps of the theater. But I cannot forget that
I did see both her and you-- indeed, Miss Forbes herself recalled the
incident-- and the close questioning of the Scotland Yard men who were
here last night showed me the folly of imagining that I could deny all