A lady! As the door closed behind her and the struggling boy, who was fighting dumbly, too terrified to scream, the inspector looked up in surprise. The girl was as shabby, if not as ragged, as the boy. “Please tell him that he is not to be hurt, that he’s safe,” she said quickly. “He’s so frightened.” The inspector looked from her to the child. “Then what have you brought him here for at this hour?” he asked sternly. “Because he knows something about the Onslow Square mystery.” Now that the die was cast and she must speak, she could hardly drag out the words. “What! that child?” said the inspector incredulously. But he rose and went over to the gasping, terrified boy, and put a kindly hand on his shoulder. “No one will hurt you,” he said, and the firm touch of his hand quieted the child like magic. As he looked up he met Ismay’s eyes, darkly green, but dull as malachite. “Mr. Davids, don’t you know me?” And in spite of her quiet voice he saw she trembled. “I am Ismay Trelane. Do you remember the night you raided my mother’s house in St. John’s Wood for a gambling-den? I was a child, and afraid. You stopped me as I was running out of the house, and you carried me up-stairs to my bed.” “Mrs. Trelane is your mother? You are that long-legged child?” He stood, remembering the utter forlornness of the little girl, her miserable bedroom in that sumptuous house, her pride that kept her from crying as she clung to him. “How do you come here?” he asked. “I heard your mother had--had gone back to her relations.” The boy, now that they talked of other things, was relieved; also that no policemen were in the room was reassuring. He sat down in a frightened way on the edge of a chair, staring at them. “I’m going to tell you.” Bravely she held up her small, lovely head, till he wondered at her beauty and her hard-held agony. “If I’m wrong, and there isn’t enough to go on----” she caught her breath. “Sit down.” The inspector pushed a chair toward her, his weariness all gone. Slowly, clearly, she told him everything, except that Marcus Wray meant Sir Gaspard’s daughter to die. Let her die; she would no longer raise a finger to save her. It was not to prevent Wray’s crimes, but to bring them home to him, that she was here. When she came to the scarab she faltered a little, for Davids was frowning. Yet he could not wonder, looking at her marvelous face, at Cylmer’s weakness in giving her his secret. He only wondered at the blindness that had made the man refuse to hear her story. And still, when it was all done, he shook his head very pitifully. “I’m afraid it isn’t enough,” he said, looking at the girl who had come to London in despair to try and save the mother against whom things looked so dark. Ismay pointed to the boy. “Ask him,” she said dully. “I went to Onslow Square. I found him on the steps, crying because they wouldn’t let him in.”