Marian Brooklyn found Joan at home. Indeed, since Tuesday she had not left the house, save for an occasional breath of air in the garden. With the police continually making inquiries, newspaper reporters laying constant siege to the house, and Sir Vernon so ill that the fact of George Brooklyn’s death had still to be kept from him, and George’s absence explained by all manner of subterfuges, Joan and Mary Woodman had been going through a terrible time, made the worse, in Joan’s case at least, by the sense of helplessness in face of a great calamity. Her duties in looking after Sir Vernon did not prevent her from thinking: rather they were such as to make thought turn to brooding. Her thoughts seemed to go round and round in an endless and aimless circle; and, as the days passed, the strain was telling on her far more than on Mary Woodman, who was not blessed—or cursed—with the faculty of imagination. Mary did her duty quietly and sympathetically, and with little sign of inward disturbance. Joan did her duty, too, but she was eating out her soul in the doing of it. Her face, as she came into the room to greet Marian, was haggard with lack of sleep. She had not quite lost that look of composure and self-possession that was normally hers; but it was easy to see that the strain on her had been severe. Marian did not quite know how to begin what she had to say; but Joan saved her from her embarrassment by beginning at once to speak about Sir Vernon. He had been very bad indeed; he was still very bad, but she thought he was beginning to rally. It had been terribly difficult—having to keep from him the news and prevent him from taking any part in the investigation. He had asked more than once to see the police; but the doctor said that absolute rest was indispensable, and that any further shock or excitement would almost certainly still be fatal to him. Joan told Marian that she and Mary had their hands so full that they knew little or nothing of what was going on, and had no idea what progress the police were making towards the solution of the mystery. This gave Marian the opening for which she had been waiting. “It was about that, darling,” she said, “I came to see you. I did not want the police to come asking you more questions until you were prepared.” Joan expressed her surprise. “Prepared, Marian—prepared for what do you mean?” “Well, dear, I thought I had better tell you. The police think they have a clue.” “A clue? Do you mean they know who did it?” “No, dear. I don’t mean that they know; but there is somebody whom they suspect. Of course, it is their business to suspect people; but I thought I ought to tell you.” “Of course, it is their business to find out who did it. I am only glad it isn’t mine—and yet I can’t help wondering. I keep thinking about it, even though I try hard to put it out of my mind.” “That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I find myself wondering——”