“She is quite calm. Curiously, almost uncannily calm. She is writing. Tell me, please, what does Mr. Harley think of Inspector Aylesbury’s preposterous ideas?” “He thinks he is a fool,” I replied, hotly, “as I do.” “But whatever will happen if he persists in dragging me into this horrible case?” “He will not drag you into it,” I said, quietly. “He has been superseded by a cleverer man, and the case is practically under Harley’s direction now.” “Thank Heaven for that,” she murmured. “I wonder----” She looked at me hesitatingly. “Yes?” I prompted. “I have been thinking about poor Mrs. Camber all alone in that gloomy house, and wondering----” “Perhaps I know. You are going to visit her?” Val Beverley nodded, watching me. “Can you leave Madame de Stämer with safety?” “Oh, yes, I think so. Nita can attend to her.” “And may I accompany you, Miss Beverley? For more reasons than one, I, too, should like to call upon Mrs. Camber.” “We might try,” she said, hesitatingly. “I really only wanted to be kind. You won’t begin to cross-examine her, will you?” “Certainly not,” I answered; “although there are many things I should like her to tell us.” “Well, suppose we go,” said the girl, “and let events take their own course.” As a result, I presently found myself, Val Beverley by my side, walking across the meadow path. With the unpleasant hush of Cray’s Folly left behind, the day seemed to grow brighter. I thought that the skylarks had never sung more sweetly. Yet in this same instant of sheerly physical enjoyment I experienced a pang of remorse, remembering the tragic woman we had left behind, and the poor little sorrowful girl we were going to visit. My emotions were very mingled, then, and I retain no recollection of our conversation up to the time that we came to the Guest House. We were admitted by a really charming old lady, who informed us that her name was Mrs. Powis and that she was but an hour returned from London, whither she had been summoned by telegram. She showed us into a quaint, small drawing room which owed its atmosphere quite clearly to Mrs. Camber, for whereas the study was indescribably untidy, this was a model of neatness without being formal or unhomely. Here, in a few moments, Mrs. Camber joined us, an appealing little figure of wistful, almost elfin, beauty. I was surprised and delighted to find that an instant bond of sympathy sprang up between the two girls. I diplomatically left them together for a while, going into Camber’s room to smoke my pipe. And when I returned: “Oh, Mr. Knox,” said Val Beverley, “Mrs. Camber has something to tell you which she thinks you ought to know.” “Concerning Colonel Menendez?” I asked, eagerly. Mrs. Camber nodded her golden head. “Yes,” she replied, but glancing at Val Beverley as if to gather confidence. “The truth can never hurt Colin. He has nothing to conceal. May I tell you?” “I am all anxiety to hear,” I assured her.