“You met some one who would remember the circumstance--or your servants could say at what time you came in?” “No,” she repeated dryly; “I met no one, for I took a brisk walk on Primrose Hill. My two servants could only say that I went out at three o’clock that afternoon and returned after five.” There was silence in the little office for a moment or two. I could hear the scraping of the pen with which the chief was idly scribbling geometrical figures on his blotting pad. Lady Molly was quite still. Her large, luminous eyes were fixed on the beautiful woman who had just told us her strange story, with its unaccountable sequel, its mystery which had deepened with the last phrase which she had uttered. Miss Löwenthal, I felt sure, was conscious of her peril. I am not sufficiently a psychologist to know whether it was guilt or merely fear which was distorting the handsome features now, hardening the face and causing the lips to tremble. Lady Molly scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper, which she then passed over to the chief. Miss Löwenthal was making visible efforts to steady her nerves. “That is all I have to tell you,” she said, in a voice which sounded dry and harsh. “I think I will go home now.” But she did not rise from her chair, and seemed to hesitate as if fearful lest permission to go were not granted her. To her obvious astonishment--and, I must add, to my own--the chief immediately rose and said, quite urbanely: “I thank you very much for the helpful information which you have given me. Of course, we may rely on your presence in town for the next few days, may we not?” She seemed greatly relieved, and all at once resumed her former charm of manner and elegance of attitude. The beautiful face was lit up by a smile. The chief was bowing to her in quite a foreign fashion, and in spite of her visible reassurance she eyed him very intently. Then she went up to Lady Molly and held out her hand. My dear lady took it without an instant’s hesitation. I, who knew that it was the few words hastily scribbled by Lady Molly which had dictated the chief’s conduct with regard to Miss Löwenthal, was left wondering whether the woman I loved best in all the world had been shaking hands with a murderess. 4 No doubt you will remember the sensation which was caused by the arrest of Miss Löwenthal, on a charge of having murdered Mr. Mark Culledon, by administering morphia to him in a cup of chocolate at Mathis’ café in Regent Street. The beauty of the accused, her undeniable charm of manner, the hitherto blameless character of her life, all tended to make the public take violent sides either for or against her, and the usual budget of amateur correspondence, suggestions, recriminations and advice poured into the chief’s office in titanic proportions.