y.

"I don't know. He refuses to tell. Of course you must see that his
absolute refusal to tell where he was that night is, to say the least,
an unwise proceeding."

"He won't even tell me where he was," she said, sighing. "But it doesn't
matter. He wasn't here."

"That's just it," I rejoined. "If he was not here, it would be far
better for him to tell where he really was. For the refusal to tell
raises a question that will not be downed, except by an alibi. I don't
want to be cruel, Miss Lloyd, but I must make you see that as the
inquiry proceeds, the actions of both Mr. Hall and yourself will be
subjected to very close scrutiny, and though perhaps undue attention
will be paid to trifles, yet the trifles must be explained."

I was so sorry for the girl, that, in my effort not to divulge my too
great sympathy, I probably used a sterner tone than I realized.

At any rate, I had wakened her at last to a sense of the danger that
threatened her and her lover, and now, if she would let me, I would do
all in my power to save them both. But I must know all she could tell
me.

"When did Mr. Hall leave you?" I asked.

"You mean the day--last Tuesday?"

"Yes?"

"He left here about half-past five. He had been in the office with Uncle
Joseph all the afternoon, and at five o'clock he came in here for a
cup of tea with me. He almost always comes in at tea-time. Then he left
about half-past five, saying he was going to New York on the six o'clock
train."

"For what purpose?"

"I never ask him questions like that. I knew he was to attend to some
business for Uncle the next day, but I never ask him what he does
evenings when he is in the city, or at any time when he is not with me."

"But surely one might ask such questions of the man to whom she is
betrothed."

Miss Lloyd again put on that little air of hauteur which always
effectually stopped my "impertinence."

"It is not my habit," she said. "What Gregory wishes me to know he tells
me of his own accord."

XIV. MR. PORTER'S VIEWS

I began on a new tack.

"Miss Lloyd, why did you tell an untruth, and say you did not come
down-stairs again, after going up at ten o'clock?"

Her hauteur disappeared. A frightened, appealing look came into her
eyes, and she looked to me like a lovely child afraid of unseen dangers.

"I was afraid," she confessed. "Yes, truly, I was afraid that they would
think I had something to do with the--with Uncle Joseph's death. And