"As you have already said, we left Atworth in order to keep an appointment here. I was entertaining a house-party, but made an excuse that one of my aunts in Cheltenham was dangerously ill. I left, and, unknown to my husband or any other person, travelled with Beryl to London." I noted that she inadvertently used my love's proper name instead of Feo, the name by which she had introduced us. "The appointment was with Mrs Chetwode?" I suggested. "Yes," she answered. "I had arranged to meet her to-day at two o'clock." "I have read in the newspapers, reports of the terrible tragedy at Whitton. It was her husband who was murdered, was it not?" "Yes," she answered in a tone rather unusual. Then she pursed her lips and held her breath for a single instant. "She has been staying with her sister in Taunton since the awful affair occurred, and came to town purposely to meet me." "I think, if I mistake not, both you and your cousin were at Whitton at the time of the tragedy," I observed with affected carelessness. "Oh no; fortunately we were not," she answered quickly. "We left the day previously." That certainly was not the truth--at least, Beryl had been there at four o'clock in the afternoon. But I made no remark. It would not be policy to tell this woman of my visit to Whitton and of all I had overheard and seen. "Well, and to-day? Did your friend Mrs Chetwode call?" Again she hesitated, and that aroused within me a further suspicion. "Yes," she replied. "She remained an hour, then left." "Alone?" "No; we went with her?" "Where?" "To visit a friend in Cadogan Place." "And how long did you remain?" "About half an hour." "Cannot you tell me the name of this friend?" "No," she answered; "it is of no account." "Did you or your cousin eat or drink anything today, except here in your own house?" "Nothing. The person whom we visited offered us port wine, but neither of us accepted." "No tea?" "None," she answered. "We afterwards returned home, arriving about five o'clock, took tea here, and dined at half-past six. An hour later, just as we had finished dinner, the servant handed Beryl a card; and she rose, excusing herself on the plea that her dressmaker had called, and, saying that she would return in a moment, left me alone to finish my dessert. I waited for her return for fully twenty minutes, then went across to the morning-room. The light had been switched off, and, when I turned it on, I saw to my horror that she was lying full length on the floor, apparently dead. We carried her here, and then I at once went in search of you." "And is that all you know?" I inquired rather incredulously. "Everything," she assured me. "I found Beryl lying helpless and insensible, just as she is now." "And that was an hour and a half ago?" I remarked. "Yes." "But who was this caller? Surely you are able to ascertain that? The servant asked the person in." "It was a woman, and she asked for my cousin."