word. It's preposterous!"

"But I don't suggest, sir, that Miss Whitworth came back in order to
quarrel with my mistress," Jenny Prask returned, as soon as Sir
Chichester's spate of words ran down. "I only give you the facts I know.
I am quite sure that Miss Whitworth can quite easily explain why she
came back to Rackham Park last night. There can't be any difficulty
about that!"

Jenny Prask had kept every intonation of her voice under her control.
There was no hint of irony or triumph. She was a respectful lady's maid,
frankly answering questions about her dead mistress. But she did not so
successfully keep sentinel over her looks. She could not but glance from
time to time at Harry Luttrell savouring his trouble and anxiety; and
when she expressed her conviction that Joan could so easily clear up
these mysteries, such a flame of hatred burnt suddenly in her eyes that
it lit Martin Hillyard straight to the heart of her purpose.

"So that's it," he thought, and was terrified as he grasped its reach.
An accusation of murder! Oh, nothing so crude. But just enough
suggestion of the possibility of murder to make it absolutely necessary
that Joan Whitworth should go into the witness box at the coroner's
inquest and acknowledge before the world that she had hurried secretly
back from Harrel to meet Mario Escobar in an empty house. Mario Escobar
too! Of all people, Mario Escobar! Jenny Prask had builded better than
she knew. That telegram which Martin had welcomed with so much relief
but an hour ago taunted him now. The scandal would have been bad enough
if Mario Escobar were nothing more than the shady hunter of women he was
supposed to be. It would be ten times louder now that Mario Escobar had
been interned as a traitor within twelve hours of the secret meeting!

Some escape must be discovered from the peril. Else the mud of it would
cling to Joan all her life. She would be spoilt. Harry Luttrell, too! If
he married her, if he did not. But Martin could not think of a way out.
The whole plan was an artful, devilish piece of hard-headed cunning.
Martin fell to wondering where was Jenny Prask's weak joint. She
certainly looked, with her quiet strength, as if she had not one at all.

To make matters worse, Miranda Brown chose this moment to re-enter the
hall. Sir Chichester, warned already by Martin, threw the warning to the
winds.

"Miranda, you are the very person to help us," he cried. "Now listen to
me, my dear, and