"Leave Mr. Mallow's name out of our conversation," interrupted Olive imperiously; "there is nothing between us that you need trouble about. I do not conceal things."
"Do I?" asked Carson, with bland inquiry.
"Ask yourself, Angus." She looked at him hard. "What do you know about Athelstane Place?"
Any belief that Olive might still have entertained in the accuracy of Mallow's suggestion was speedily dispelled by the expression of sheer amazement upon Carson's face. He remained cool and perfectly colourless.
"What do I know of Athelstane Place?" he repeated blankly. "Why, I never heard of Athelstane Place."
"No; after living all my life in India, the English newspapers contain nothing likely to interest me. But why do you ask me these strange questions?"
"I will tell you, if you will answer me a still stranger one."
"What is it?" asked Carson, apparently much mystified. "Why do your clothes smell so of sandal-wood?"
"Is that all? Why, because I keep them in a sandal-wood chest."
"Yes, I bought it from a Chinaman in Bombay. I like the scent of the wood. Is the odour disagreeable to you? I hope not. Had I known I should have bought new clothes in London."
"The odour is not in itself disagreeable," replied Olive, "but in Athelstane Place a man was murdered whose clothes also smelt strongly of this sandal-wood."
"That is strange," said Carson, biting his finger-nails--"very strange. I remember now. Semberry did mention this murder to me."
"But I thought you said you had not heard of the locality?"
"For the moment I forgot. I recollect now that he mentioned the name casually. But he said nothing about any smell of sandal-wood. I should like to hear more about that. Very strange," said Carson, musingly. "But what, may I ask, can this murder have to do with me?"
If the man was acting, his powers of simulation were marvellous. Olive did not think he was acting. He had not the strength or self-control to mask his feelings so completely. The last shadow of doubt vanished from her mind. There could be no question as to the _bona fides_ of the man.
"If you do not know, I do not," she retorted, and walked back to the drawing-room.
Carson remained where he was, deep in thought. "Murdered man----that sandal-wood odour?" he muttered, drawing his brows together; "I cannot understand it. I must ask Semberry the meaning of this." As he spoke, he removed his right arm from the sling with a sigh of relief, and let it hang for a minute or so. The bangle slipped down from under his shirt-cuff on to his wrist. Carson's eye caught its glitter, and he laughed outright.