As I had spoken she had never taken her eyes off me. Big and black and unwinking they stared and as I stared back I could see it wasn’t surprise or fear they showed but a concentrated attention. "What do you mean—act in what way?" "Get you to their office tomorrow and question you about the Harland case and make you confess." She was as still as a statue. You’d have thought she was turned to stone, but for the moving up and down of her chest. "What am I to confess? What have I done?" My hands gripped together in my muff and my voice went down to my boots for I couldn’t say it aloud. "Been a party to the murder of Hollings Harland." When I said it I had an expectation that she’d say something, deny it in some violent way that would make me think she was innocent. Maybe Jack Reddy had influenced me, but I wanted it, I looked for it, I hoped for it—and I was disappointed. If it _had_ been a shock to her, if she _hadn’t_ known there’d been a murder, she would never have behaved as she did. For she said not a word, standing stock still, her face chalk white, even the red fading from her lips, and her eyes fixed on the wall opposite, like the eyes of a sleep-walker. "The murder of Hollings Harland," she whispered, and it was more as if she was speaking to herself than to me. "Yes," I went on. "They’ve discovered it—a group of us have been working in secret, following the clues and gathering the evidence. Now we’ve got it all ready and tomorrow they expect to arrest you." She suddenly sank down into a chair by the table, her hands braced against its edge, her eyes riveted in that strange, mesmerized stare on the fern plant in front of her. "When did they discover it?" she said in a low voice. [Illustration: _'When did they discover it?’ she said in a low voice._] "Not long after it happened—but that doesn’t matter. They’ve got everything in their hands. Even if you insist that you’re innocent they’ve got enough to arrest you on. You’ve been under surveillance all along—they’ve been shadowing you. They followed you that time you tried to go to Toronto." "I knew that," she said in the same low voice as if she was talking to herself. "They know how you came out of the building that night—not by the elevator as you said, but by the stairs, and how you didn’t get home till nearly eight. They know about you and Barker." She lifted her head and said quickly: "_What_ do they know about me and Barker?" "That he was in love with you and you with him." "Oh, _that_!" Her tone was indifferent as if the point was a matter of no consequence. "They know how the murder was done. How you and Barker did it." "Barker and I——" She sank back in her chair, then suddenly leaning across the table, looked into my face and said, "Tell me how we did it. Let me see what they know."