CHAPTER XXVIII. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. I beg that you will consider me your friend. “Contrarily, you are sitting on a sepulcher of death! It 30 is only a matter of time before the Pestilence strikes here again, Gianfrancesco. Perhaps because I don’t know. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Monsieur is going inside perhaps?” But Sir John’s eyes were still riveted upon the poster, and his heart was beating with unaccustomed force. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. It is magnificent indeed. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. He parried without apparent effort. Nobody can trust you. ” “The inference is, then,” the detective said smoothly, “that this man obtained admission to your rooms by means of a false key, that he burnt some papers here and shot himself within a few moments of your return. ” Her eyes glinted, macabre.
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