e threatened to send for the police," she went on rapidly, "and I told
him he might do so. I didn't mind the police--it was Kara I was afraid
of. You know what I went for, my mother's property."

She held the snuff-box in her outstretched hand.

"He accused me of stealing and was hateful, and then he put me
downstairs in that awful cellar and--"

"And?" suggested T. X.

"That's all," she replied with tightened lips; "what are you going to do
now?"

"I am going to ask you a few questions if I may," he said. "In the first
place have you not heard anything about Mr. Kara since you went away?"

She shook her head.

"I have kept out of his way," she said grimly.

"Have you seen the newspapers?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I have seen the advertisement column--I wired asking Papa to reply to
my telegram."

"I know--I saw it," he smiled; "that is what brought me here."

"I was afraid it would," she said ruefully; "father is awfully
loquacious in print--he makes speeches you know. All I wanted him to say
was yes or no. What do you mean about the newspapers?" she went on. "Is
anything wrong with mother?"

He shook his head.

"So far as I know Lady Bartholomew is in the best of health and is on
her way home."

"Then what do you mean by asking me about the newspapers!" she demanded;
"why should I see the newspapers--what is there for me to see?"

"About Kara?" he suggested.

She shook her head in bewilderment.

"I know and want to know nothing about Kara. Why do you say this to me?"

"Because," said T. X. slowly, "on the night you disappeared from Cadogan
Square, Remington Kara was murdered."

"Murdered," she gasped.

He nodded.

"He was stabbed to the heart by some person or persons unknown."

T. X. took his hand from his pocket and pulled something out which was
wrapped in tissue paper. This he carefully removed and the girl watched
with fascinated gaze, and with an awful sense of apprehension. Presently
the object was revealed. It was a pair of scissors with the handle
wrapped about with a small handkerchief dappled with brown stains. She
took a step backward, raising her hands to her cheeks.

"My scissors," she said huskily; "you won't think--"

She stared up at him, fear and indignation struggling for mastery.

"I don't think you committed the murder," he smiled; "if that's what
you mean to ask me, but if anybody else found those scissors and had
identified this handkerchief you would have been