"Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding," he said, turning the photograph towards her. "Yes," said the complacent mother, "she taught herself when--before she went on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew up she improved herself. I wasn't able to afford her much schooling when she was young." "I have seldom seen a nicer hand," he went on. "Have you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not private." The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not mistaken. "Oh yes. She's just copying out the part of Ophelia in _Hamlet_. And she acts it beautiful." Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion has moved millions to tears. He admired Miss Marie le Marchant's efforts in the matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her some explanation of her actions. The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the coveted "part," and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a "professional" touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her skirt. She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother's explanation that "this gentleman has just called to see you, dear." "All right, mother," she cried. "I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes." This with a defiant look at the visitor. When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper: "What do you want with me, now?" "I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress." The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant's assurance failed her. She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate: "I--I--why do you ask me that question?" "Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game." That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart. Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously: "I will tell you nothing. Go away." "You are obstinate, I know," said Bruce, "but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady Dyke's death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law." "You have no right to come here annoying me!" she retorted.