"No, sir.
He called and he went, and I saw him in the back yard at 8.30.
I never spoke to him, and he never spoke to me."
"Could you swear to the man if you saw him?"
"Yes, I could.
Have you got him with you?" asked Rhoda eagerly.
"Not at present," answered Lucian, rather surprised by the vindictive expression on the girl's face. "But later on I may call upon you to identify him."
"Do you know who he is?" asked the servant quickly.
"I think so."
"Did he kill that man?"
"Possibly," said Denzil, wondering at these very pointed questions. "Why do you ask?"
"I have my reasons, sir.
Where is my cloak?"
"I will return it later on; it will probably be used as evidence."
Rhoda started. "Where?" she demanded, with a frown.
"At the trial."
"Do you think they'll hang the person who killed Mr. Vrain?"
"If the police catch him, and his guilt is proved, I am sure they will hang him."
The girl's eyes flashed with a wicked light, and she clasped and unclasped her hands with a quick, nervous movement.
"I hope they will," she said in a low, rapid voice. "I hope they will."
"What!" cried Lucian, with a step forward. "Do you know the assassin?"
"No!" cried Rhoda, with much vehemence. "I swear I don't, but I think the murderer ought to be hanged.
I know—I know—well, I know something—see me to-morrow night, and you'll hear."
"Hear what?"
"The truth," said this strange girl, and shut the door before Lucian could say another word.
The barrister, quite dumbfounded, remained on the step looking at the closed door.
So important were Rhoda's words that he was on the point of ringing again, to interview her once more and force her to speak.
But when he reflected that Mrs. Bensusan was in bed, and that Rhoda alone could reopen the door—which from her late action it was pretty evident she would not do—he decided to retire for the present.
It was little use to call in the police, or create trouble by forcing his way into the house, as that might induce Rhoda to run away before giving her evidence.
So Lucian departed, with the intention of keeping the next night's appointment, and hearing what Rhoda had to say.
"The truth," he repeated, as he walked along the street. "Evidently she knows who killed this man.
If so, why did she not speak before, and why is she so vindictive?
Heavens!
If Diana's belief should be a true one, and her father not dead?
Conspiracy! murder! this gypsy girl, that subtle Italian, and the mysterious Wrent! My head is in a whirl.
I cannot understand what it all means.
To-morrow, when Rhoda speaks, I may.
But—can I trust her?
I doubt it.
Still, there is nothing else for it.
I must trust her."
Talking to himself in this incoherent way, Lucian reached his rooms and tried to quiet the excitement of his brain caused by the strange words of Rhoda.
It was yet early in the afternoon, so he took up a book and threw himself on the sofa to read for an hour, but he found it quite impossible to fix his attention on the page.
The case in which he was concerned was far more exciting than any invention of the brain, and after a vain attempt to banish it from his mind he jumped up and threw the book aside.
Although he did not know it, Lucian was suffering from a sharp attack of detective fever, and the only means of curing such a disease is to learn the secret which haunts the imagination.
Rhoda, as she stated—rather ambiguously, it must be confessed—could reveal this especial secret touching the murder of Vrain; but, for some hidden reason, chose to delay her confession for twenty-four hours.
Lucian, all on fire with curiosity, found himself unable to bear this suspense, so to distract his mind and learn, if possible, the true relationship existing between Ferruci and Jorce, he set out for Hampstead to interview the doctor.
"The Haven," as Jorce, with some humour, termed his private asylum, was a red brick house, large, handsome, and commodious, built in a wooded and secluded part of Hampstead.
It was surrounded by a high brick wall, over which the trees of its park could be seen, and possessed a pair of elaborate iron gates, opening on to a quiet country lane.
Externally, it looked merely the estate of a gentleman.