rful." She went out, but she came back in a moment and stuck her
head through the door.

"_That's_ the only inevitable thing there is," she said, taking up the
conversation--an old habit of hers--where she had left off.

"I don't know what you are talking about," I retorted, turning my back
on her. "And anyhow, I regard your suggestion as immoral." But when I
turned again, she had gone.

That Saturday afternoon at four o'clock the body of Allan Fleming was
brought home, and placed in state in the music-room of the house.

Miss Jane had been missing since Thursday night. I called Hunter by
telephone, and he had nothing to report.

CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT IN THE FLEMING HOME

I had a tearful message from Hawes late that afternoon, and a little
after five I went to the office. I found him offering late editions of
the evening paper to a couple of clients, who were edging toward the
door. His expression when he saw me was pure relief, the clients',
relief strongly mixed with irritation.

I put the best face on the matter that I could, saw my visitors, and
left alone, prepared to explain to Hawes what I could hardly explain to
myself.

"I've been unavoidably detained, Hawes," I said, "Miss Jane Maitland has
disappeared from her home."

"So I understood you over the telephone." He had brought my mail and
stood by impassive.

"Also, her brother-in-law is dead."

"The papers are full of it."

"There was no one to do anything, Hawes. I was obliged to stay," I
apologized. I was ostentatiously examining my letters and Hawes said
nothing. I looked up at him sideways, and he looked down at me. Not a
muscle of his face quivered, save one eye, which has a peculiar
twitching of the lid when he is excited. It gave him a sardonic
appearance of winking. He winked at me then.

"Don't wait, Hawes," I said guiltily, and he took his hat and went out.
Every line of his back was accusation. The sag of his shoulders told me
I had let my biggest case go by default that day; the forward tilt of
his head, that I was probably insane; the very grip with which he seized
the door-knob, his "good night" from around the door, that he knew there
was a woman at the bottom of it all. As he closed the door behind him I
put down my letters and dropped my face in my hands. Hawes was right. No
amount of professional zeal could account for the interest I had taken.
Partly through force of circumstances, partly of my own volition, I had
pla