As Humblethorne rose to his feet, she slipped upstairs again, recalled to the part of eavesdropper she was playing. She was above and out of sight when the two men turned and went over to the sheet, but heard Humblethorne’s remarks about the cigarette box and then his announcement of departure. The possibility that it might be her finger-marks which would be found on the box suddenly crossed her mind, but more lasting was the memory of the original little puzzle which had started her on her career of investigation. She had forgotten all about it in the turmoil of her emotions, but now it came back to perplex her; there was probably some very obvious solution, but she resolved to ask Philip at the first opportunity if he had moved the box. Though she dreaded with all her strength the terrible solution which her reason told her was the right one, she continued to hope that something would be found wholly to falsify it: this fact, new to her, of the broken pantry window might possibly help to establish faith in triumph over reason. Humblethorne’s rather contemptuous dismissal of it did not promise well, but still she felt she must find out about it for herself, if only to divert her mind from facts which it was torture to contemplate. She heard the hall door close as Humblethorne took his departure and after a moment’s hesitation came downstairs again. Birts was standing in the hall, gloomily surveying the carpet. He was not in a good humour; his faith had been callously imposed upon, he considered, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that when all the facts came to the ears of his chief he would be lucky if he escaped merely with a reprimand. He looked up sharply when he heard her tread; then, seeing who it was, he allowed his official manner to relax a little: he had known her these twenty years. “Oh, it’s you, Miss Evelyn, is it?” he said. “Take care as you come by, miss; nothing’s to be moved, not on no account.” “No, I see,” she answered, skirting the wall scrupulously. She looked keenly at Birts when she was well in the hall and, though she did not follow all his thoughts, made a very shrewd guess at his general humour. “You look tired, Birts,” she said sympathetically; “it’s the responsibility, I suppose. I hope Fairlie’s looking after you all right; did he bring you any tea?” “Well, miss,” replied Birts, gratified, “I haven’t had any and that’s a fact. It isn’t Fairlie’s fault; I was out and come in too late; the inspector had some all right.” “Oh, but that’s not fair; why should he have his and you not? I’ll go and see about it at once.” “Don’t trouble, miss; I’ll ask Fairlie for a cup when I see him.” “It’s no trouble: every one has to do what they can to help at a time like this.”