“I?” said Nance. “Impossible! You cannot know what you are saying. I?” “Yes, Mrs. Rowton, that is your painful duty—that is, if you still wish me to go on with the search.” “Of course I wish you to go on with it. My heart is on fire—my noble young brother—my father’s life sacrificed. Go on with the search? Yes, yes, I say to the bitter end. I would see that man on the gallows if I could. I have taken a vow in this matter.” “There are some vows which are bad,” said the detective; “some vows are better broken than kept. I speak against my own calling when I remind you of that, Mrs. Rowton. I am interested in this case. It is, I admit, a very terrible one. Madam, you must prepare for a blow. It belongs to my calling to know something of human nature. I think I read you right. I think I am not mistaken. You love your husband?” “Love him,” said Nance. Her face, which had looked fierce and unwomanly, underwent an instant change. “You have no right to ask me that question,” she continued. “Nevertheless,” she added, raising her voice and speaking with sudden and unlooked for strength, “I will answer it. Yes, I love my husband. There are no words in any language to express my unalterable love.” She no longer leant against the chair—she stood upright, her hands hung at her sides, her head was flung back. There was not the faintest suspicion in her voice, in her face, of the awful news which the detective was trying to break to her. He was silent for nearly a minute, puzzled how to proceed. She herself helped him at last. “I cannot understand,” she said, “why it is left to me to make the final and last discovery. If you have done all else, why not complete it? The man who possesses the cipher and who has used it, who possesses the hieroglyphic and who has used it, must be the man who also possesses the mark. Find the mark for yourself, Mr. Crossley.” “The mark, Mrs. Rowton, is on the face—on the upper lip. It is small, but distinct. It alters the complete character of the mouth, being a death’s head and arrow tattooed on the lip. How done and for what purpose I cannot tell you. Now, the man whom we suspect has covered that mark by means of a moustache. My servant would have completed the task himself, but he found it difficult—impossible.” “A man who lives at Rowton Heights with a moustache,” said Nance, laughing somewhat unsteadily. “You must surely be mistaken, for I know everyone in my own house. The servants, of course, do not wear hair on their faces. In fact, no one wears a moustache except my husband.” She stopped, and looked with dilated eyes at the detective. “That is true, Mrs. Rowton. No one wears a moustache but your husband, Adrian Rowton.” “What can you mean? You look at me in a very queer way. What is your meaning? Speak.”