“He has not denied it,” she answered--“very likely he will not do so before the magistrate--but neither has he admitted it. Mr. Ruff, you are such a clever man. Can’t you see the truth?” Peter Ruff looked at her steadily for several moments. “Lady Mary,” he said, “I can see what you are going to suggest. You are going on the assumption that Austen Abbott was shot by Letty Shaw and that your brother is taking the thing on his shoulders.” “I am sure of it!” she declared. “The girl did it herself, beyond a doubt. Brian would never have shot any one. He might have horsewhipped him, perhaps--even beaten him to death--but shot him in cold blood--never!” “The provocation--” Ruff began. “There was no provocation,” she interrupted. “He was engaged to the girl, and of course we hated it, but she was an honest little thing, and devoted to him.” “Doubtless,” Ruff admitted. “But all the same, as you will hear before the magistrates, or at the inquest, she was having supper alone with Austen Abbott that night at the Milan.” Lady Mary’s eyes flashed. “I don’t believe it!” she declared. “It is nevertheless true,” Peter Ruff assured her. “There is no shadow of doubt about it.” Lady Mary was staggered. For a few moment she seemed struggling to rearrange her thoughts. “You see,” Ruff continued, “the fact that Miss Shaw was willing to sup with Austen Abbott tete-a-tete renders it more improbable that she should shoot him in her sitting room, an hour or so later, and then go calmly up to her mother’s room as though nothing had happened.” Lady Mary had lost some of her confidence, but she was not daunted. “Even if we have been deceived in the girl,” she said, thoughtfully--“even if she were disposed to flirt with other men--even then there might be a stronger motive than ever for her wishing to get rid of Abbott. He may have become jealous, and threatened her.” “It is, of course, possible,” Ruff assented, politely. “Your theory would, at any rate, account for your brother’s present attitude.” She looked at him steadfastly. “You believe, then,” she said, “that my brother shot Austen Abbott?” “I do,” he admitted frankly. “So does every man or woman of common sense in London. On the facts as they are stated in the newspapers, with the addition of which I have told you, no other conclusion is possible.” Lady Mary rose. “Then I may as well go,” she said tearfully. “Not at all,” Peter Ruff declared. “Listen. This is a matter of business with me. I say that on the facts as they are known, your brother’s guilt appears indubitable. I do not say that there may not be other facts in the background which alter the state of affairs. If you wish me to search for them, engage me, and I will do my best.” “Isn’t that what I am here for?” the girl exclaimed. “Very well,” Peter Ruff said. “My services are at your disposal.” “You will do your best--more than your best, won’t you?” she begged. “Remember that he is my brother--my favourite brother!”