erness. She, too, looked at him: there was a question in the eyes of both.
"What do you make of that!" asked Purdie after a pause.
"What do you make of it?" she asked in her turn.
"It looks odd—but there may be a reason for it," he answered. "Look here!—I 'm going to ask you a question. What do you know of Mr. Levendale? You've been governess to his children for some time, haven't you?"
"For six months before he left Cape Town, and ever since we all came to England, three years ago," she answered. "I know that he's very rich, and a very busy man, and a member of Parliament, and that he goes to the City a great deal—and that's all! He's a very reserved man, too—of course, he never tells me anything. I've never had any conversation with him excepting about the children."
"You're upset about this book affair?" suggested Purdie.
"Why should Mr. Levendale say that he left that book in the omnibus, when I myself saw him leave the 'bus with it in his hand, and go down Praed Street with it!" she asked. "Doesn't it look as if he were the person who left it in that room—where the old man was found lying dead?"
"That, perhaps, is the very reason why he doesn't want people to know that he did leave it there," remarked Purdie, quietly. "There's more in all this than lies on the surface. You wanted my advice? Very well—don't say anything to anybody till you see me again.
