"A scandalous paper," said Ware, annoyed. "What did it say?"
"That you were in love with Anne, that you were engaged to Miss Kent, and that to gain you as her husband Anne killed the girl."
"It's a foul lie.
I'll horsewhip the editor and make him put in an apology."
"I shouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Ware," said the old lady dryly. "Better let sleeping dogs lie.
I don't believe the whole story myself—only part of it."
"What part, Mrs. Cairns?"
"That part which says you love Anne.
I can see it in your face."
"If I can trust you——"
"Certainly you can.
Anne is like my own child.
I believe her guiltless of this terrible crime, and I would do anything to see her righted.
She did not kill the girl."
"No, I believe the girl was killed by a nameless man who came to Rickwell from some firm of solicitors.
I don't know why he murdered the poor child, no more than I can understand why Anne should have helped him to escape."
"You call her Anne," said Mrs. Cairns softly.
Giles flushed through the tan of his strong face.
"I have no right to do so," he said. "She never gave me permission.
Mrs. Cairns, I assure you that there was no understanding between Miss Denham and myself.
I was engaged by my father to Miss Kent, and we were to be married.
I fell in love with Miss Denham, and I have reason to believe that she returned my love."
"She told you so?"
"No, no!
She and I never said words like that to one another.
We were friends; nothing more.
Miss Kent chose to be jealous of a trifling gift I gave Miss Denham at Christmas, and there was trouble.
Then came an anonymous letter, saying that Anne wished to kill Daisy."
"A letter, and said that?" exclaimed Mrs. Cairns in surprise. "But I can't understand it at all. Anne had no enemies, so far as I know.
No one could hate so sweet a girl.
Her father——"
"Did you know her father?" asked Ware quickly.
"No; but she often spoke of him.
She was fond of her father, although he seems to have been a wandering Bohemian.
He died at Florence."
"I wonder if he really did die."
"Of course.
He—but it's a long story, Mr. Ware, and I have not the time to tell it to you.
Besides, there is one who can tell you all about Anne and her father much better than I can.
The Princess Karacsay.
Do you know her?"
"I have seen the name somewhere."
"Probably on a programme," said Mrs. Cairns composedly. "Oh, don't look so astonished.
The Princess is really a Hungarian aristocrat.
She quarrelled with her people, and came to England with very little money.
To keep herself alive she tried to become a governess.
Afterwards, having a beautiful voice, she became a concert singer.
I hear she is very popular."
"How should she know about Anne—I mean Miss Denham?"
"Because if there is any woman to whom Anne would go in her distress, it would be the Princess.