"Answer this question truthfully. What was Mrs. Stannard doing, when you left her in the Billiard Room?" "She was sitting on one of the leather seats that are built to the wall." "Was she looking at you, as you left?" "No. She had buried her face in a pillow against which she leaned." "Why did she do this? Was she feeling ill?" "No." "Then why the act?" "I cannot say." "You mean you will not. Was it because you had said something to her that caused her emotion?" "I refuse to answer, and you have no right to ask." "Very well, don't answer. But, you must admit, that if her face was buried in the pillow, she could not see if a man passed through the Billiard Room to the studio." "But no one did!" "How do you know?" "Because I should have seen him from the bench where I sat." "No, you would not, because you were the man." "You accuse me?" "I do." "I deny it. But I shall say no more to you. Have you a warrant for my arrest?" "I have not." "Then go--and go quickly, before I tell you what I think of you!" But Bobsy Roberts was no fool. He said, quietly, "I'd rather you would tell me what you think of me. It may help me to get at the truth. There are reasons why we are inquiring into your connection with this matter--you will hear the reasons soon enough. There is peculiar but direct evidence that you are the man who stabbed Mr. Stannard." "Evidence? What do you mean?" "Just what I say. But never mind that. You have nothing else to tell me? No proof to adduce that you were just where you claim to have been when the studio was darkened?" "No! No proof, because none is needed. You can't have evidence--it is impossible!" "Then that is all, Mr. Courtenay. You needn't tell me what you think of me. Your opinion doesn't interest me. But perhaps after you hear the evidence I speak of, you'll sing another tune. Oh, I'm not going to tell you about it. Ask Mrs. Stannard." "I asked you not to mention that lady's name. Good morning, Mr. Roberts." "Good morning." And Bobsy went away, filled with conviction of Eugene Courtenay's guilt. Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce. "I've missed you so," she said, simply, as she met him on the Terrace. "Why haven't you been here?" "I thought better not, darling. I can't control myself sufficiently to hide my love for you. And I feared it might bring embarrassment on you if I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so long to wait! Must it be two years? I can't live through it." "Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor Eric dead so short a time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young. You couldn't love me, or respect me, if I failed in ordinary behaviour toward a husband's memory. And Eric was good to me." "Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty woman he met! Joyce, how could you ever marry him?"