ill my
friend--and his."

Her anger disconcerted the man more than her anguish had done. His
breath caught sharply.

"You don't realise what you are saying," he said, speaking calmly with
an effort. "Because I once loved you--love you still if you will--before
ever Robert Grell came into your life, you hint an unthinkable thing."

She crossed the room in a graceful swirl of draperies, and laid a finger
on the bell. Her features were set. She was in no state to weigh the
justice or injustice of the implied accusation she had made. And the
man, for his part, felt his oppression brushed away by anger at her
readiness to judge him.

"We shall see whether the police believe it unthinkable," she said
coldly.

A servant tapped discreetly and opened the door.

"Show this person out," she said.

Sir Ralph bowed mechanically. There was nothing more to be said. He knew
that in her present condition an appeal to her to suppress the story of
the telephone message would be worse than useless. As he passed down the
steps and into the street, a man sauntered idly a dozen yards behind
him. And thirty yards behind that man was another whom the baronet might
have recognised as Chief Detective-Inspector Green--had he seen him.

Within the house a girl, no longer upheld by the strength of passionate
denunciation, had collapsed on a couch, a huddled heap of draperies,
sobbing as though her heart would break.

CHAPTER VIII

It was an hour after Fairfield had left her before Eileen Meredith's
sobs died away in the deserted room. There was none to hear or see, and
she gave way to her grief uncontrolled. Gradually the first shock
passed. Her calmness came back to her, but she was a different woman to
the vivacious, sunny girl who had looked forward to her wedding-day. Her
face was set stonily, and in the grey depths of her eyes there lurked in
place of laughter an implacable determination.

She had loved Robert Grell with the fierce, passionate devotion of a
strong nature. The sudden news of his death had brought out the
primitive woman bent on vengeance. It was no impulse of suddenly
shattered nerves that had made her turn on Fairfield. To coldly analyse
the facts for and against him was beyond her. She only thought of the
man who had a possible motive for slaying her lover and had had a
possible opportunity.

Yet none would have guessed the burning emotion that thrilled in her
veins as she submitted to the ministrations