But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest. "I've nothing to say," she declared, as she came unwillingly into the Reception Room to meet him. "I'm not under arrest, and there's no law that can make me talk if I don't want to." The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one little slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a petulant school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought of anything really wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in guile and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value. "No law ought to make you do anything you don't want to," he said smiling; "but suppose it's to your own advantage to talk?" The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy Roberts had a pleasant effect, for Natalie's pout disappeared and a look of confidence came into her blue eyes. "I wonder if I can trust you," she said, meditatively, as she gazed at him, with an alluring intentness. "You sure can," returned Bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously steeled himself against her witcheries. "No, I don't think I can," she said, after a moment, and with a tiny sigh of disappointment, she looked away. "Go on; question me as you like." "Why can't you trust me?" "Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see you suspect me of killing Mr. Stannard." "And didn't you?" Bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct questions. But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard. "No," she said, quietly, "I didn't. But when I say I didn't, it implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don't want to do that. Can't you tell me what to do?" "Well, it's this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the guilty person, you want it known, don't you?" "No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason for it, and I'd rather nobody'd know she did it." "What was her good reason?" "Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was--that is,--he had eyes for other people beside his wife." "You, for instance." "Yes!" and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of angry reminiscence. "I have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he _is_ dead." "He was kind to you." "Too kind,--in some ways,--and not enough so in others." "And his wife was jealous?" "Who wouldn't be! He petted her to death one day and the next he neglected her shamefully. I will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if Joyce killed Eric,--I don't say she did, but if she did, why can't we just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? Barry wants that and so do I. And who else is to be considered?" "The law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair." "Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the wishes of the people most concerned." "Then straighten out a few uncertain points. Where are the emeralds?"