And indeed the shadow which had fallen upon all of us seemed at that
moment almost palpable--a thing to be felt like the darkness of Egypt
and not to be dispelled even by the brightness of the morning.

"When did you last see Coverly?"

Isobel raised her head wearily.

"Last night, and he seemed to think that some one was following him--a
detective."

I noticed that Isobel spoke of Eric Coverly with a certain manner of
restraint for which I could not account. Yet perhaps it was only
natural that she should do so, but at the time I was foolishly blind
to the opposing emotions which fought and conflicted within her.

"He still refused to explain his movements on the night of the
murder?" I asked.

"Yes, he persisted in his extraordinary silence," said Isobel.

The look of trouble in her eyes grew more acute.

"What I cannot understand is a sort of attitude of resentment which he
has lately adopted."

"Of resentment? Towards whom?"

"Towards _me_."