osom, and then hastily returned to her chair by
the fire and picked up a book. Her eyes skimmed the lines of type
mechanically. She read nothing, although she turned the pages.

Presently she flung the book aside and, without ringing for a maid,
dressed in an unobtrusive walking costume of deep black. She selected a
heavy fur muff and transferred the pistol to its interior. Her fingers
closed tightly over the butt. On her way to the door she was stopped by
an apologetic footman.

"There's a lot of persons from the newspapers waiting out in the
streets, Lady Eileen," he said.

"Indeed!" Her voice was cold and hard.

"They might annoy you. They stop every one who goes in or out."

She answered shortly and stepped out through the door he held open.
There was a quick stir among the reporters, and two of them hastily
detached themselves and confronted her, hats in hand. She forced a
smile.

"It's no use, gentlemen," she said. "I will not be interviewed." She
looked very dainty and pathetic as she spread out her hands in a
helpless little gesture. "Can I not appeal to your chivalry? You are
besieging a house of mourning. And, please--please, I know what is in
your minds--do not follow me."

She had struck the right note. There was no attempt to break her down.
With apologies the men withdrew. After all, they were gentlemen whose
intrusion on a private grief was personally repugnant to them.

The girl reached Scotland Yard while Heldon Foyle was still in talk with
Green. Her name at once procured her admission to him. She took no heed
of the chair he offered, but remained standing, her serious grey eyes
searching his face. He observed the high colour on her cheeks, and
almost intuitively guessed that she was labouring under some impulse.

"Please do sit down," he pleaded. "You want to know how the case is
progressing. I think we shall have some news for you by to-morrow. I
hope it will be good."

"You are about to make an arrest?"

The words came from her like a pistol-shot. A light shot into her eyes.

The detective shook his head. He had seen the look in her face once
before on the face of a woman. That was at Las Palmas, in a
dancing-hall, when a Portuguese girl had knifed a fickle lover with a
dagger drawn from her stocking. Lady Eileen was scarce likely to carry a
dagger in her stocking, but--his gaze lingered for a second on the muff,
which she had not put aside. It was queer that she should not withdraw
h