Margaret stared for some moments at the carpet, then raised her grey eyes and looked earnestly at the speaker. She had learned in the brief time that had elapsed since this black sorrow had come upon him to understand what it was in the character of Monte Irvin which had attracted Rita. It afforded an illustration of that obscure law governing the magnetism which subsists between diverse natures. For not all the agony of mind which he suffered could hide or mar the cleanness and honesty of purpose which were Monte Irvin’s outstanding qualities. “No,” Margaret replied, “honestly, I don’t. And I feel rather guilty about it, too, because I have been urging uncle to take such a step for quite a long time. You see”—she glanced at Irvin wistfully—“I am brought in contact with so many victims of the drug habit. I believe the police are hampered; and these people who deal in drugs manage in some way to evade the law. The Home office agent will report to a committee appointed by Lord Wrexborough, and then, you see, if it is found necessary to do so, there will be special legislation.” Monte Irvin sighed wearily, and his glance strayed in the direction of the telephone on the side-table. He seemed to be constantly listening for something which he expected but dreaded to hear. Whenever the toy spaniel which lay curled up on the rug before the fire moved or looked towards the door, Irvin started and his expression changed. “This suspense,” he said jerkily, “this suspense is so hard to bear.” “Oh, Mr. Irvin, your courage is wonderful,” replied Margaret earnestly. “But he”—she hastily corrected herself—“everybody is convinced that Rita is safe. Under some strange misapprehension regarding this awful tragedy she has run away into hiding. Probably she has been induced to do so by those interested in preventing her from giving evidence.” Monte Irvin’s eyes lighted up strangely. “Is that the opinion of the Home office agent?” he asked. “Yes.” “Inspector Kerry shares it,” declared Irvin. “Please God they are right.” “It is the only possible explanation,” said Margaret. “Any hour now we may expect news of her.” “You don’t think,” pursued Monte Irvin, “that anybody—anybody—suspects Rita of being concerned in the death of Sir Lucien?” He fixed a gaze of pathetic inquiry upon her face. “Of course not!” she cried. “How ridiculous it would be.” “Yes,” he murmured, “it would be ridiculous.” Margaret stood up. “I am quite relieved now that I have done what I conceived to be my duty, Mr. Irvin,” she said. “And, bad as the truth may be, it is better than doubt, after all. You must look after yourself, you know. When Rita comes back we shall have a big task before us to wean her from her old habits.” She met his glance frankly. “But we shall succeed.” “How you cheer me,” whispered Monte Irvin emotionally. “You are the truest friend that Rita ever had, Miss Halley. You will keep in touch with me, will you not?”