The child, who had sat dumb and only half-comprehending, shied at first, then, under the half-teasing questions of the inspector, grew garrulous, then proud of his importance. “I’d know him fast enough, if I see him,” he observed cheerfully. “He upset my box when he passed me, and so I run after him, and I see him drop that bottle. It was shiny, and I run and grabbed it.” “Or it would have been ground to powder?” the inspector said musingly. “It would have been a clever idea if it had worked better.” He held out the scarab in its broken setting. “Was the blue thing on his cuff like this?” “I dunno. I hadn’t time to see. Won’t it soon be morning, mister? I’m awful hungry.” “What are you going to do?” said Ismay, very low. For there had been no change in that imperturbable face. Davids turned round from a cupboard, whence he produced some biscuits for the boy, who fell on them ravenously. “Where does this man Wray live?” he asked, and she told him. He locked away the scarab and the bottle in silence, and the girl’s beautiful face grew blank and wan. Was he going to do nothing? Had she told her story in vain? “I won’t hide anything from you, Miss Trelane,” he said bluntly. “I’m going myself to Wray’s rooms, and I must tell you if we find nothing there, and have only this boy’s story to go on, the case against your mother will scarcely be improved. The child can identify Wray, perhaps, but he may be able to clear himself with the greatest of ease.” Ismay looked at him blankly. Her head ached till the pain numbed her, her excitement had gone, and instead she felt sick. If she had told all, only for Cylmer to triumph in her mother’s guilt, what should she do? Yet her lips never quivered as she nodded in assent. “I am going to turn the key on you, too,” he said, so evenly that she did not know whether he thought her an impostor or not. “And you’d better try to sleep. I may be a long time.” He wondered afresh at her courage as he left her alone with the boy, in a suspense that must be like the very grasp of death. He was not too certain of her, either. She seemed truthful, but she was Mrs. Trelane’s child. A long acquaintance with that lady’s career did not lead to confidence in her daughter. Hour by hour the night wore on. The bootblack slept coiled up on the floor; but Ismay sat bolt upright, wide-awake, her damp clothes drying on her. Once she started to her feet at a noise outside. But whoever it was passed on, and as the dark hour before dawn hung on the earth her head fell backward on the leather chair. The night was so long, the day so far off yet, and there was nothing to tell her what the sunrise would bring.