“It was almost unnecessary that you should say even as much as that,” growled Morrice, only half appeased. His mind was quick enough when he chose to exercise it. This man had been rendered suspicious and distrustful of everybody by his calling, and the sinister secrets he discovered in the pursuit of it. He had half suspected, or at any rate thought it within the bounds of possibility, that Morrice might have some inkling of what had been going on, and he had chosen this way of provoking a definite disclaimer. “There are other things it is my duty to tell you,” went on the detective smoothly; he was not going to take any further notice of that angry outburst. “For some long time past Mrs. Morrice has been in the habit of supplying the young man with money. I cannot estimate the amount that has passed into his hands, but judging from his extravagant habits, I should say it must be a considerable sum, much more than the lady could afford if she were to maintain her position as the wife of a wealthy man.” A lightning inspiration came to the unfortunate financier. “Am I not right in saying that you sent me an anonymous letter on this very subject?” Lane felt it was useless to prevaricate. “I did. I may be wrong, but I felt it was the best way to set you on the track. I thought it would be very painful for you to be warned in a more open and direct way. I trust that the suspicion I threw out was not justified.” He said this with a very good show of concern, although he was certain he had not fired that shot at random. Mrs. Morrice’s avowal that she had been half ruined, and that it could not go on, had convinced him that her assistance to young Brookes had not been confined to a few hundreds out of her annual allowance—these would have gone no way with such a determined prodigal. For the first time in his life, Rupert Morrice’s proud head drooped in deep humiliation. It was terribly degrading to him to listen to the detective’s merciless recital, to know that the treachery of the woman who bore his name, to whom he had given an honoured and assured position, was, as it were, the common property of others. “Alas,” he said, in a voice from which every trace of anger had fled, which only expressed feelings of the most unutterable sadness. “Your suspicions have been fully justified. From whence did you get all this information that enabled you to make such an accurate diagnosis of what was happening?” But Lane was very staunch, and as high-minded as a man could be in the trying circumstances of such a profession. He would certainly not give Rosabelle away, for if he did Morrice would be sure to think she should have come to her uncle first and discussed with him the propriety of going to Lane at all. He had in a manner rather stolen a march upon her, but she should not suffer.