“Yes, yes. This was the meaning of the sorrow which I had seen so often in her eyes, the meaning of so much that puzzled me in her words, the explanation of lots of little things which have made me wonder in the past.” I was silent for a while, then: “If she was so certain that no one could save him,” I said, “she must have had information which neither he nor she ever imparted to us.” “I am sure she had,” declared Val Beverley. “But can you think of any reason why she should not have confided in Paul Harley?” “I cannot, I cannot--unless--” “Yes?” “Unless, Mr. Knox,” she looked at me strangely, “they were both under some vow of silence. Oh! it sounds ridiculous, wildly ridiculous, but what other explanation can there be?” “What other, indeed? And now, Miss Beverley, I know one of the questions Inspector Aylesbury will ask you.” “What is it?” “He has learned, from one of the servants I presume, as he did not see you, that you had not retired last night at the time of the tragedy.” “I had not,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Is that so singular?” “To me it is no more than natural.” “I have never been so frightened in all my life as I was last night. Sleep was utterly out of the question. There was mystery in the very air. I knew, oh, Mr. Knox, in some way I knew that a tragedy was going to happen.” “I believe I knew, too,” I said. “Good God, to think that we might have saved him!” “Do you think--” began Val Beverley, and then paused. “Yes?” I prompted. “Oh, I was going to say a strange thing that suddenly occurred to me, but it is utterly foolish, I suppose. Inspector Aylesbury is coming back at nine o’clock, is he not?” “At half-past eight, so I understand.” “I am afraid I have very little to tell him. I was sitting in my room in an appalling state of nerves when the shot was fired. I was not even reading; I was just waiting, waiting, for something to happen.” “I understand. My own experience was nearly identical.” “Then,” continued the girl, “as I unlocked my door and peeped out, feeling too frightened to venture farther in the darkness, I heard Madame’s voice in the hall below.” “Crying for help?” “No,” replied the girl, a puzzled frown appearing between her brows. “She cried out something in French. The intonation told me that it was French, although I could not detect a single word. Then I thought I heard a moan.” “And you ran down?” “Yes. I summoned up enough courage to turn on the light in the corridor and to run down to the hall. And there she was lying just outside the door of her room.” “Was her room in darkness?” “Yes. I turned on the light and succeeded in partly raising her, but she was too heavy for me to lift. I was still trying to revive her when Pedro opened the door of the servants’ quarters. Oh,” she closed her eyes wearily, “I shall never forget it.” I took her hand and pressed it reassuringly. “Your courage has been wonderful throughout,” I declared, “and I hope it will remain so to the end.”