“You have certainly shown remarkable resource, and, if I may say so, courage, Miss Temple,” Humblethorne remarked as he, fastened up the evidence with much precaution against injury. “It was taking a serious responsibility to handle this statuette after what you suspected.” “Perhaps,” she returned vaguely: “it is necessary sometimes. At any rate I have finished now, and I wish I had never started. It is horrible to feel my hand has doomed one who has been really an old friend.” She shuddered and then added, “Well, at any rate you need not trouble about Mr. Penterton. This is the end.” “Yes,” repeated Humblethorne thoughtfully, “this is the end—if Fairlie is speaking the truth, the whole truth, I mean. But is he?” Without waiting for an answer he bowed to Evelyn in acknowledgment of her services and left the room. CHAPTER XIV Sight at Last It was some minutes before Evelyn gathered her thoughts together after Humblethorne’s parting remark: it startled her into fresh speculation just when she thought she could at last put the whole dreadful business firmly from her mind. Then resentment came to her rescue— “How like that little man!” she thought. “He will never own that he has been hopelessly wrong: he began by believing John did it and he still believes it; well, what does it matter? He can’t bring a shred of evidence to support what isn’t true.” With that she made a great effort to throw off the fear he had left with her. She looked into the room she used with Celia, hoping to find her friend and tell her what had taken place. The room was empty, and Evelyn remembered that Celia was sitting with her mother. They would both have to know and she had better go and tell them at once for fear of their hearing the news suddenly from a less sympathetic source. However broken, it was bound to be a terrible shock to Lady Penterton: Fairlie had been a servant to her and her father for over forty years and there was a very real and deep attachment between them. It was an unpleasant task, but she obviously could not avoid it. Reluctantly she went along the passage to Lady Penterton’s boudoir. No one was there, and she went on to the bedroom she had visited with the first news of the tragedy: now she had to complete the tale. She knocked lightly and entered; Celia was sitting in an armchair reading in a low voice to her mother who was lying back in her bed, wan and listless. As Evelyn looked at the fine, weary face, Celia’s description of her mother the day before as ‘very quiet but somehow very old’ returned to her mind with vivid force. “Here’s Evelyn, mother,” said Celia, breaking off from her reading. “How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Eleanor?” said Evelyn, bending over the bed and kissing the old lady. “I thought you would be in your boudoir.” “I meant to get up, dear,” she replied in a dull voice. “She did get as far as the loggia yesterday,” said Celia.