said. "But I still refuse."

Inspector Fay leant back in his chair patiently.

"Come, Mr. Layton, you will only put us to the trouble and delay of
proving what you might as well tell us at once. And it will do you no
good."

"I should be sorry to cause you any additional trouble," Layton replied.
"But I have my reasons."

"Let me help you," continued the inspector. "I have had inquiries made
at Miss Manderson's hotel, at the theater at which she was to have
appeared, of her maid, and various other sources. We have got her time
pretty well accounted for. It seems that you have not seen her at all
since she arrived in this country two months ago. Is that so?"

There was no answer.

"Anyway, if you did see her once or twice, there were certainly no
opportunities for anything to develop between you to account for your
behavior, or justify to the right to which you considered yourself
entitled. You must have known her before."

Layton was still silent. The inspector continued easily.

"I am wondering whether a cable across the Atlantic would bring me a
description of a certain Michael Cranbourne, once well known in the
United States--particularly in Chicago--son of a multi-millionaire."

James Layton stiffened in his chair. He had become white and tense.

"A large part in the career of Michael Cranbourne was played by an
adventuress named Thea Colville--said, at one time, to have been the
most beautiful woman in America--and known later, on the stage in New
York, as Christine Manderson."

The young man rose. On his face there was a wonderful new dignity and
calm--a relief, as if some heavy burden had dropped from him and left
him free.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I am Michael Cranbourne. I might have admitted
it at first. What do you want now?"

"The whole story," the inspector replied, motioning him back to his
chair.

"I will tell you," he said.

He sat down again. A great contentment seemed to rest upon him, as on
one who reaches the end of a difficult and tiring journey. There was a
long pause.

"I first met Thea Colville," he began, at last, "in Chicago, when I was
twenty-five--seven years ago. She was twenty. It would be no use
attempting to give you an idea of what she was like. You never saw her
alive. No description could convey an impression of her beauty--of her
awful fascination. From the moment I first saw her there was no other
woman in my world. I was engaged to be married, but I put an end