Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a way she didn't care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what might not a woman do? Again, could it not be that the artist's wife had had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband's interest in the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood? "It's a poor clue that won't work both ways," mused Bobsy Roberts, as he heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so. Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at dinner the night before. The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower. After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until perhaps half past eleven---- "Wait," interposed the Coroner. "Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after your departure, at that hour." "Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn't note the time. I went directly home, and retired without looking at the hour." "You went out at the front door?" "Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn't look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities." There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay. But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and to him it was a revelation. "Oh, ho," was his self-communing, "sits the wind in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are--er--_en rapport_--it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this." Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce's before she succumbed to Stannard's Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.