“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question, for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question. “This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.” Marjorie Lennox rose quietly from the low chair upon which she had been seated. “I am ready to tell the Sergeant anything.” And at that moment the truth came home to Sergeant Clegg—unerringly—that unless he “watched his step” very carefully he would be as wax in the hands of the highly-capable Miss Lennox. He found himself fervently wishing that he belonged to the ranks of the “strong, silent men”—certainly not to the Romantics. For Marjorie Lennox had a delicate beauty and a dainty charm that were instantly arresting. She was “petite,” it is true, but she had that semi-disdainful, semi-challenging roguishness that many men find so hard to resist. It was easy to find fault with her features, for her nose was appreciably “retroussé”—but this very tip-tiltedness only served, if anything, to enhance her attractiveness. She had glorious blue eyes—twin pools of pure cornflower, and a complexion that made one immediately think of roses and cream. Added to this she possessed a demure gracefulness that almost perfected her, giving her a Dresden china sort of setting—from the depths of which she was destined to play havoc with the hearts of men. And of course she fulfilled that destiny to the limit of her dainty power! Sergeant Clegg threw an inexorable rein over his romanticism and did his duty. A little throat clearing once again prefaced his first remark. “Thank you, Miss——” he hesitated momentarily. “Lennox,” she broke in quickly. “Marjorie Lennox. I am—or rather, I was—Mr. Stewart’s ward.” She sank back in her chair again. “Yes, miss. I understand that much. How long have you lived with Mr. Stewart?” “Ever since I was a little girl of three. My father was a very old friend of Uncle Laurence’s—I always called Mr. Stewart ‘uncle’”—she explained with engaging candor—“and when my father died I came to Uncle Laurence to live. My mother died when I was born,” she added simply. “Was your father in good circumstances when he died—can you remember?” Marjorie Lennox flushed. “I believe not. Certainly his circumstances were quite different from those of Uncle Laurence. What has that to do——?”