"I should be even more precise," said Denzil slowly. "I should say a stiletto—an Italian stiletto."
"A stiletto!" gasped Mrs. Vrain, whose delicate pink colour had faded to a chalky white. "Oh!—oh!
I—I—" and she fainted forthwith.
CHAPTER VII THE ASSURANCE MONEY
Mrs. Vrain's fainting fit was of no great duration, and she shortly recovered her senses, but not her sprightliness.
Her excuse was that the long discussion of her husband's murder, and the too precise details related to her by Link before Denzil's arrival, had so wrought on her nerves as to occasion her temporary indisposition.
This reason, which was a trifle weak, since she seemed to bear her husband's loss with great stoicism, awakened suspicions in Lucian's mind as to her truthfulness.
However, these were too vague and confused to be put into words, so the young man remained silent until Mrs. Vrain and her father departed.
This they did almost immediately, after the widow had given her London and country addresses to the detective, in case he should require her in the conduct of the case.
This matter being attended to, she left the room, with a parting smile and especial bow to Lucian.
Link smiled in his turn as he observed this Parthian shaft, the shooting of which was certainly out of keeping with Mrs. Vrain's character of a mourning widow.
"You seem to have made an impression on the lady, Mr. Denzil," he said, with a slight cough to conceal his amusement.
"Nonsense!" replied Lucian, his fair face crimsoning with vexation. "She seems to me one of those shallow women who would sooner flirt with a tinker than pass unnoticed by the male sex.
I don't like her," he concluded, with some abruptness.
"On what grounds?"
"Well, she spoke very hardly about her husband, and seemed rather more concerned about this assurance money than his death.
She is a flippant doll, with a good deal of the adventuress about her.
I don't think," said the barrister significantly, "that she is altogether so ignorant of this matter as she pretends to be."
The detective raised his eyebrows.
"You don't propose to accuse her of the murder?" he asked sceptically.
"Oh, no!" answered Denzil hastily. "I don't say she is as guilty as all that; but she knows something, or suspects something."
"How do you make that out?"
"She fainted at the mention of stiletto; and I am convinced that Vrain—as I suppose we must call him now—was killed with one.
And again, Link, this woman admitted that she had married her elderly husband in Florence.
Now, Florence, as you know, is an Italian town; a stiletto is an Italian weapon.
Putting these two things together, what do you make of Mrs. Vrain's fainting?"
"I make nothing of it, Mr. Denzil. You are too suspicious.
The woman had no reason to rid herself of her husband as you hint."
"What about the assurance money?"
"There is a motive there, certainly—a motive of gain.
Still, I think you are making a mountain out of a molehill, for I am satisfied that she knows no more who committed the crime than does the Pope himself."
"It is as well to look in every direction," said Lucian obstinately.
"Meaning that I should follow this clue you suggest, which has no existence save in your own fancy.
Well, I'll keep my eye on Mrs. Vrain, you may be sure of that.
It won't be difficult, as she will certainly stay in town until she identifies the body of her dead husband and gets the money.
If she is guilty, I'll track her down; but I am certain she has nothing to do with the crime.
If she had, it is not likely that she would enter the lion's den by coming to see me. No, no, Mr. Denzil; you have found a mare's nest."
Lucian shrugged his shoulders, and took up his hat to go.
"You may be right," said he reluctantly, "but I have my doubts of Mrs. Vrain, and shall continue to have them until she supplies a more feasible explanation of her fainting.
In the meantime, I'll leave you to follow out the case in the manner you judge best.
We shall see who is right in the long run," and Denzil, still holding to his opinion, took his departure, leaving Link confident that the young man did not know what he was talking about.
As the detective sat thinking over the late conversation, and wondering if he could shape any definite course out of it, Denzil put his head in at the door.
"I say, Link," he called out, "you'd better find out if Mrs. Vrain is really the wife of this dead man before you are guided by her story!"
After which speech he hurriedly withdrew, leaving Link to digest it at his leisure.
At first, Link was indignant that Denzil should deem him so easily hoodwinked as the speech implied.
Afterwards he began to laugh.
"Wife!" said he to himself. "Of course she is the man's wife!
She knows too much about him to be otherwise; but even granting that Denzil is right—which I don't for a moment admit—there is no need for me to prove the truth of his assumption.
If this pretty woman is not the true wife of Berwin, or Vrain, or whatever this dead man's name actually may be, the assurance company will get at the rights of the matter before paying over the money."
Subsequent events reflected credit on this philosophical speech and determination of Mr. Link.