“‘She had some preposterous story about some letters which she alleged would be compromising to my reputation,’ continued Lady de Chavasse quietly. ‘These she had the kindness to offer me for sale for a hundred pounds. At first her impudence staggered me, as, of course, I had no knowledge of any such letters. She threatened to take them to my husband, however, and I then—rather foolishly, perhaps—suggested that she should bring them to me first. I forget how the conversation went on, but she left me with the understanding that she would get the letters from her aunt, Miss Pebmarsh, who, by the way, had been my governess when I was a child, and to whom I paid a small pension in consideration of her having been left absolutely without means.’ “And Lady de Chavasse, conscious of her own disinterested benevolence, pressed a highly-scented bit of cambric to her delicate nose. “‘Then the accused did spend the evening with you on that Wednesday?’ asked the coroner, while a great sigh of relief seemed to come from poor Pamela’s breast. “‘Pardon me,’ said Lady de Chavasse, ‘she spent a little time with me. She came about nine o’clock.’ “‘Yes. And when did she leave?’ “‘I really couldn’t tell you—about ten o’clock, I think.’ “‘You are not sure?’ persisted the coroner. ‘Think, Lady de Chavasse,’ he added earnestly, ‘try to think—the life of a fellow-creature may, perhaps, depend upon your memory.’ “‘I am indeed sorry,’ she replied in the same musical voice. ‘I could not swear without being positive, could I? And I am not quite positive.’ “‘But your servants?’ “‘They were at the back of the flat—the girl let herself out.’ “‘But your husband?’ “‘Oh! when he saw me engaged with the girl, he went out to his club, and was not yet home when she left.’ “‘Birdie! Birdie! won’t you try and remember?’ here came in an agonised cry from the unfortunate girl, who thus saw her last hope vanish before her eyes. “But Lady de Chavasse only lifted a little higher a pair of very prettily-arched eyebrows, and having finished her evidence she stepped on one side and presently left the court, leaving behind her a faint aroma of violet sachet powder, and taking away with her, perhaps, the last hope of an innocent fellow-creature.” Chapter IV “But Pamela Pebmarsh?” I asked after a while, for he had paused and was gazing attentively at the photograph of a very beautiful and exquisitely-gowned woman. “Ah, yes, Pamela Pebmarsh,” he said with a smile. “There was yet another act in that palpitating drama of her life—one act—the _dénouement_ as unexpected as it was thrilling. Salvation came where it was least expected—from Jemima Gadd, who seemed to have made up her mind that Pamela had killed her aunt, and yet who was the first to prove her innocence. “She had been shown the few words which the murdered woman was alleged to have written after she had been stabbed. Jemima, not a very good scholar, found it difficult to decipher the words herself.