"I'll tell you everything," she said, "only I must know all about you first. Why were you following George? You don't mean to let him know who you are? Oh, Neil, Neil, promise me that you won't do that." "Joyce," I said slowly, "I want to find out who killed Seton Marks. I don't suppose there is the least chance of my doing so, and if I can't I most certainly mean to wring George's neck. That was chiefly what I broke out of prison for." "Yes, yes," she said feverishly, "but there _is_ a chance. You'll understand when I've explained." She put her hands to her forehead. "Oh, I hardly know where to begin." "Begin anywhere," I said. "Tell me why you're pretending to be a palmist." She got up from my knee and, walking slowly to the table, seated herself on the end. "I wanted money," she said; "and I wanted to meet one or two people who might be useful about you." "But I left eight hundred pounds for you with Tommy," I exclaimed. "You got that?" She nodded. "It's in the bank now. I have been keeping it in case anything happened. You don't suppose I was going to spend it? How could I have helped you then even when I got the chance?" "But, my dear Joyce," I protested, "the money was for you. And you couldn't have helped me with it in any case. I had plenty more waiting for me when my sentence was out." "When your sentence was out," repeated Joyce fiercely. "Do you think I was going to let you stop in prison till then!" She checked herself with an effort. "I had better tell you everything from the beginning," she said. "I couldn't write any more to you, because I was only allowed to send the two letters, and I knew both of them would be read by somebody." She paused a moment. "I went away after the trial. I was very ill, and Tommy took me to a little place called Looe, down in Cornwall. We stayed there nearly six months. When I came back I took the flat next to him and called myself Miss Vivien. I had made up my mind then what I was going to do. You see there were only two possible ways in which I could help you. One was to find out who killed Marks, and the other was to get you out of prison--anyhow. Of course, after the trial, it seemed madness to think about the first, but then I just had three things to go on. I knew that you were innocent, I knew that for some reason of his own George had lied about you, and I knew that there had been some one else in the flat the day of the murder." "The man who was with Marks when you arrived," I said. "But you saw him go away, and there was nothing to connect him with the murder, except the fact that he didn't turn up at the trial. Sexton himself had to admit that in his speech." "There was his face," said Joyce quietly. "It was a dreadful face. It looked as if all the goodness had been burned out of it." "There are about five hundred gentlemen like that in Princetown," I said, "including several of the warders. Did they ever find out anything about him?"