“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.” “No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection. “Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology. But it didn’t deceive Miss Lennox. Just as Clegg had realized her insincerity, so she in her turn knew that this rather lame explanation of his question to her had not been the truth. She immediately put herself on the defensive. Inclined as she had been in the first place to under-rate this policeman, she effected a mental readjustment. She awaited his next question—outwardly unchanged, but inwardly more vigilant. When it came it surprised her. “Did you hear anything unusual in the night, Miss Lennox?” Somewhat relieved, she breathed more freely, but her defensive tension remained unrelaxed. “Nothing! I slept like a top.” The blue eyes regarded him ingenuously. “Thank you. One last question, Miss Lennox. You have lived a long time with Mr. Laurence Stewart, almost as long I suppose as Mr. Charles Stewart here—and ladies, if you’ll excuse me saying such a thing, are very often more in a man’s confidence than gentlemen! For instance, you were as a daughter to the poor gentleman”—he broke off suddenly—and Marjorie Lennox began to sob quietly—her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. There was genuine sorrow here—Sergeant Clegg had sufficient sense to recognize it when it came his way—and it was reflected in young Stewart as well. His white face grew whiter—the ordeal of this dreadful day was oppressing him more and more—and Marjorie’s convulsive sobbing tore his heart-strings. He knew he must have help. He would get it as soon as he could. This was too much. Sergeant Clegg felt his courage sink into his boots. This sobbing was more than a Romantic could stand—the more so because he himself had provoked it. He must do something to stop it. He placed his hand on her shoulder—an act that he was always to remember. “Come, come. What I mean is this. If Mr. Stewart regarded you in the light of a daughter—did he ever _confide_ in you? Any secret? Any trouble? Had he any enemies that might have wanted to do him harm?” She looked up. “He had no secrets at all. He wasn’t the kind. But since you’ve asked me—I’ll tell you—something.” She sprang to her feet. Her eyes shone like stars and her hands were clenched together. Her whole manner altered. “There _is_ a man who wanted to do him harm. A man none of you would ever suspect. He’s in the house now—why should I shield him?” Charles Stewart threw out his hand and attempted to restrain her. But she flung the proffered hand away imperiously, while Stewart looked at her reproachfully. “Sergeant Clegg asked me,” she asserted vehemently. “Sergeant Clegg shall know. The man is Morgan Llewellyn!!!”