This was but poor comfort to the young man. He found it impossible to believe any evil of that marvellous-looking woman. If there was anything in what Santley said it plainly pointed at her; for were not she and her husband the only people in the house? He did not care to go home. He could not meet that woman while even the hint of such a suspicion was in his head. He did not suspect her; but the suspicion had been spoken to him, it was sounding in his ears, and he could not bring himself to stand face to face with her and hear that murmur. He told himself this was an absurd condition of mind; but he could not help it. What was she to him, or he to her, that he should thus give way to such feelings? She was a beautiful, a surprisingly beautiful woman to whom he had rendered a slight service, shown a little kindness. That was all. He wandered aimlessly about for an hour, and finally went into town. Dulwich was intolerable to him. At Victoria railway station he took a hansom and drove to the Robin Hood Club. It was now between eleven and twelve. The club had not been long open, and there were only three members in the place. One of these happened to be Jerry O'Brien, a young Irishman, an intimate friend of Paulton, reputed to be clever, and known to be indolent. To him Paulton told the story of Crescent House, and what Dr. Santley had hinted at. Up to this Jerry O'Brien had given little close attention to the story. He was smoking in a huge easy-chair with eyes half shut. The idea that a woman had poisoned her husband roused even him to attention, and as Paulton had finished his story he began to ask questions. "And so this doctor of yours won't certify to the cause of death, and thinks your goddess may have had a hand in it!" "Yes. Isn't it horrible?" "What is your goddess like?" "Dark and most lovely. A noble kind of beauty." "Good figure?" "Perfect." "Did you hear her name?" "Yes; Davenport." Jerry O'Brien blew the smoke of his cigar away with a whistle. "Is she English?" "No. I think Scotch." "Possibly Irish?" "Ay, she may be Irish." "And her husband was an elderly man, with a greyish full beard and chronic asthma?" "Yes. Do you know them?" "By heavens, I do! And I think I know, if there has been foul play, who cheated." "Who? Not she?" "Not she directly, any way, but Tom Blake, the biggest scoundrel Ireland has turned out for years and years, and an old lover of hers. I saw him in Piccadilly to-day. He looked as if he was meditating murder. Poor old Davenport!--I knew him well. He was a simple man. She must have told Blake of the lonely house. Your doctor is right. There is reason for suspicion, and I'll be at the inquest. You will, of course?" "Unfortunately, yes." "Then I promise you will hear an interesting story." Paulton shuddered. CHAPTER IV. SEEKING HELP.