“My superiors can then satisfy themselves whether the waitress is or is not so sure of her statement that she invariably picks out again and again one particular individual amongst a number of others or not.” “Surely,” interrupted Lady Irene, dryly, “you and your superiors do not expect my servants to help in such a farce?” “We don’t look upon such a proceeding as a farce, Lady Irene,” rejoined Lady Molly, gently. “It is often resorted to in the interests of an accused person, and we certainly would ask the co-operation of your household.” “I don’t see what they can do.” But the two girls did not seem unwilling. The idea appealed to them, I felt sure; it suggested an exciting episode, and gave promise of variety in their monotonous lives. “I am sure both these young ladies possess fine big hats,” continued Lady Molly with an encouraging smile. “I should not allow them to wear ridiculous headgear,” retorted Lady Irene, sternly. “I have the one your ladyship wouldn’t wear, and threw away,” interposed the young parlour-maid. “I put it together again with the scraps I found in the dusthole.” There was just one instant of absolute silence, one of those magnetic moments when Fate seems to have dropped the spool on which she was spinning the threads of a life, and is just stooping in order to pick it up. Lady Irene raised a black-bordered handkerchief to her lips, then said quietly: “I don’t know what you mean, Mary. I never wear big hats.” “No, my lady,” here interposed the lady’s maid; “but Mary means the one you ordered at Sanchia’s and only wore the once--the day you went to that concert.” “Which day was that?” asked Lady Molly, blandly. “Oh! I couldn’t forget that day,” ejaculated the maid; “her ladyship came home from the concert--I had undressed her, and she told me that she would never wear her big hat again--it was too heavy. That same day Mr. Culledon was murdered.” “That hat would answer our purpose very well,” said Lady Molly, quite calmly. “Perhaps Mary will go and fetch it, and you had better go and help her put it on.” The two girls went out of the room without another word, and there were we three women left facing one another, with that awful secret, only half-revealed, hovering in the air like an intangible spectre. “What are you going to do, Lady Irene?” asked Lady Molly, after a moment’s pause, during which I literally could hear my own heart beating, whilst I watched the rigid figure of the widow in deep black crape, her face set and white, her eyes fixed steadily on Lady Molly. “You can’t prove it!” she said defiantly.