As the detective passed through the hall on his way out, he found Rosabelle waiting for him. She was of course cognizant of what had happened, and on Lane’s arrival her first idea had been to be present at the interview between him and her uncle. But on second thoughts she had decided to speak to the detective alone. She still loved her uncle very dearly; she must always do that for all the kindness and affection he had lavished on her. But it was impossible there should not be a little secret antagonism between the two in the circumstances. He appeared to be firmly convinced of Richard Croxton’s guilt, she as firmly convinced of his innocence. She was a fair-minded girl, and she was prepared to make every allowance for Morrice’s attitude, but as there did not seem any common ground on which they could meet when the matter was under discussion, she judged it best to speak of it to him as little as possible. She put to him practically the same question that her uncle had done: “Well, Mr. Lane, what do you think of the new development? Does it reveal anything to you?” That wary and cautious person shook his head. He had taken a great liking to Rosabelle. Her staunch devotion to her lover had appealed to the finer chords of his nature; for although he never allowed sentiment to sway him unduly, he was by no means destitute of that human quality. But not even for Rosabelle’s sake would he depart greatly from that cautious attitude which was habitual to him. “It is a strange development, Miss Sheldon, but I have not yet had time to think it over. I am going back to my office to do so, and the thinking over will take some time.” Her charming face fell. “You cannot see in it even the remotest thing that tells in favour of Richard Croxton?” The eyes were very sad, the voice was very pleading. Should he give the unhappy girl one little crumb of comfort? For a little time he hesitated, then compassion got the better of prudence and of his iron reserve. “I will just say this, Miss Sheldon, and no more. It is becoming a less impossible task to clear him than I at first thought; but please don’t be too jubilant—there are still very formidable difficulties in the way.” A radiant light came into the charming face, although her eyes filled with tears and she clasped her hands nervously together. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “You have put new life into me with those words, Mr. Lane. I know you quite well by now, and I am sure that, coming from you, they mean much.” Poor Lane began to think he had made a bit of a mistake in departing from his usual caution, in being moved by the pleading attitude of the girl into giving her this small crumb of comfort. That was the worst of women—they were so impressionable and optimistic, or pessimistic, as the case might be. Their moods were never equable: they were either at the height of elation or in the depth of despair.