"I really haven’t any definite questions I want to ask you, Miss Hailsham," he confessed. "What we hoped was that you might have something to tell us which indirectly might throw some light on this affair. You see, we come into it without knowing anything about the people involved, and naturally any trifle may help us. Now if I’m not mistaken, you knew Mr. Hassendean fairly well?"
"I was engaged to him at one time. He broke off the engagement for various reasons. That’s common knowledge, I believe."
"Could you give us any of the reasons? I don’t wish to pry, you understand; but I think it’s an important point."
Miss Hailsham’s face showed that he had touched a sore place.
"He threw me over for another woman—brutally."
"Mrs. Silverdale?" Sir Clinton inquired.
"Yes, that creature."
"Ah! Now I’d like to put a blunt question. Was your engagement, while it lasted, a happy one? I mean, of course, before he was attracted to Mrs. Silverdale."
Norma Hailsham sat with knitted brows for a few moments before answering.
"That’s difficult to answer," she pointed out at last. "I must confess that I always felt he was thinking more of himself than of me, and it was a disappointment. But, you see, I was very keen on him; and that made a difference, of course."
"What led to the breaking of your engagement?"
"You mean what led up to it? Well, we were having continual friction over Yvonne Silverdale. He was neglecting me and spending his time with her. Naturally, I spoke to him about it more than once. I wasn’t going to be slighted on account of that woman."
There was no mistaking the under-current of animosity in the girl’s voice in the last sentence. Sir Clinton ignored it.
"What were your ideas about the relations between Mr. Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale?"
Miss Hailsham’s thin lips curled in undisguised contempt as she heard the question. She made a gesture as though averting herself from something distasteful.
"It’s hardly necessary to enter into that, is it?" she demanded. "You can judge for yourself."
But though she verbally evaded the point, the tone in which she spoke was sufficient to betray her private views on the subject. Then with intense bitterness mingled with a certain malicious joy, she added:
"She got what she deserved in the end. I don’t pretend I’m sorry. I think they were both well served."
Then her temper, which hitherto she had kept under control, broke from restraint:
"I don’t care who knows it! They deserved all they got, both of them. What business had she—with a husband of her own—to come and lure him away? She made him break off his engagement to me simply to gratify her own vanity. You don’t expect me to shed tears over them after that? One can forgive a good deal, but there’s no use making a pretence in things like that. She hit me as hard as she could, and I’m glad she’s got her deserts. I warned him at the time that he wouldn’t come off so well as he thought; and he laughed in my face when I said it. Well, it’s my turn to laugh. The account’s even."
And she actually did laugh, with a catch of hysteria in the laughter. It needed no great skill in psychology to see that wounded pride shared with disappointed passion in causing this outbreak.
Sir Clinton checked the hysteria before it gained complete hold over her.
"I’m afraid you haven’t told us anything that was new to us, Miss Hailsham," he said, frigidly. "This melodramatic business gets us no further forward."
The girl looked at him with hard eyes.
"What help do you expect from me?" she demanded. "I’m not anxious to see him avenged—far from it."
Sir Clinton evidently realised that nothing was to be gained by pursuing that line of inquiry. Whether the girl had any suspicions or not, she certainly did not intend to supply information which might lead to the capture of the murderer. The Chief Constable waited until she had become calmer before putting his next question:
"Do you happen to know anything about an alkaloid called hyoscine, Miss Hailsham?"
"Hyoscine?" she repeated. "Yes, Avice Deepcar’s working on it just now. She’s been at it for some time under Dr. Silverdale’s direction."
Flamborough, glancing surreptitiously at Markfield, noted an angry start which the chemist apparently could not suppress. Put on the alert by this, the Inspector reflected that Markfield himself must have had this piece of information, and had refrained from volunteering it.
"I meant as regards its properties," Sir Clinton interposed. "I’m not an expert in these things like you chemical people."
"I’m not an alkaloid expert," Miss Hailsham objected. "All I can remember about it is that it’s used in Twilight Sleep."
"I believe it is, now that you mention it," Sir Clinton agreed, politely. "By the way, have you a car, Miss Hailsham?"
"Yes. A Morris-Oxford four-seater."
"A saloon?"
"No, a touring model. Why do you ask?"
"Someone’s been asking for information about a car which seems to have knocked a man over on the night of the last fog. You weren’t out that night, I suppose, Miss Hailsham?"
