Clegg wagged his head half apologetically. “I see! I see! Now, coming to the events of last night—I’ve no wish to distress you, Miss Lennox, but there’s just this. You dined, I believe, with Mr. Stewart, Colonel Leach-Fletcher and Mr. Morgan. Is that so?” He ticked the three names off on his fingers. “Yes. There were just the four of us. Charles did not return for dinner.” “And after dinner?” Marjorie flashed him a searching—penetrating glance. “Do you mean what did I do after dinner or——” “If you please, miss.” The Sergeant became acutely aware of his constitutional chivalry, but sternly suppressed it. “I came in here. It is my usual practice after dinner. Uncle Laurence used to like me to play to him—he was passionately fond of music. But last night he went into the library.” “Did you stay in here for the rest of the evening?” “Yes—no—no, I’m wrong! It was about nine o’clock when I left here.” She amended her statement with the utmost composure and Clegg couldn’t be sure if she had made a genuine mistake or was desirous of concealing something. But he remembered Llewellyn’s story and the two didn’t tally! Llewellyn had made no mention of Miss Lennox having left the music-room at nine o’clock! He had stated that he spent the _remainder_ of the evening with her. Now—according to Marjorie Lennox—he had been alone for an hour. That is to say there was at least one hour of his time for which he had not accounted. Now Clegg was slow-moving and inspiration visited him but seldom, but he took _care_, and he quickly came to the conclusion that hereabouts in his inquiry extreme care would be necessary if he were to achieve any success. He decided to hasten slowly. “Where did you go then, Miss Lennox?” he followed up. “To my room. My uncle was still engaged with Colonel Leach-Fletcher in the library, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.” “Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?” “No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would go to bed early.” “You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?” “Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. “When did you last go in there?” “To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you ask?” She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it. His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at least.