suspect Miss Shand? Is she not that man's
victim?"

He did not speak for several moments; his gaze was fixed upon the fire.

"Well," he replied, stirring himself at last, "to tell you the truth, Mr.
Royle, I'm just as puzzled as you are. She may be the victim of this man
we know to be an unscrupulous adventurer, but, at the same time, her hand
may have used that triangular-bladed knife which we have been unable to
find."

The knife! I held my breath. Was it not lying openly upon that table in
the corner of the drawing-room at Cromwell Road? Would not analysis
reveal upon it a trace of human blood? Would not its possession in itself
convict her?

"Then what is your intention?" I asked, at last.

"To see her and put a few questions, Mr. Royle," he answered slowly. "I
know how much this must pain you, bearing in mind your deep affection for
the young lady, but, unfortunately, it is my duty, and I cannot see how
such a course can be avoided."

"No. I beg of you not to do this," I implored. "Keep what observation you
like, but do not approach her--at least, not yet. In her present frame of
mind, haunted by the shadow of the crime and hemmed in by suspicion of
which she cannot clear herself, it would be fatal."

"Fatal! I don't understand you."

"Well--she would take her own life," I said in a low whisper.

"She has threatened--eh?" he asked.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"Then does not that, in itself, justify my decision to see and question
her?"

"No, it does not!" I protested. "She is not guilty, but this terrible
dread and anxiety is, I know, gradually unbalancing her brain. She is a
girl of calm determination, and if she believed that you suspected her
she would be driven by sheer terror to carry out her threat."

He smiled.

"Most women threaten suicide at one time or other of their lives. Their
thoughts seem to revert to romance as soon as they find themselves in a
corner. No," he added. "I never believe in threats of suicide in either
man or woman. Life is always too precious for that, and especially if a
woman loves, as she does."

"You don't know her."

"No, but I know women, Mr. Royle--I know all their idiosyncrasies as well
as most men, I think," he said.

I begged him not to approach my well-beloved, but he was inexorable.

"I must see her--and I must know the truth," he declared decisively.

But I implored again of him, begging him to spare her--begged her life.

I had gripped him by