“To show him this letter! Don’t be alarmed—the lady does not eye Llewellyn’s suit with any favor. She has threatened him doubtless that if he continued to pester her with his attentions, she would report the whole affair to Stewart. Somewhere about five minutes past ten on the fatal night—she did so.” “What happened after that?” queried Peter, breathlessly. “That, of course, I can’t answer,” replied Anthony. “I can only enter and subsequently explore the realm of conjecture. I assume that Stewart found this to be yet another trouble to add to his worries. He was probably incensed at what he would naturally term his secretary’s effrontery. I think his interview with his ward was short—he would deal with Mr. Llewellyn in the morning. I imagine also that Miss Lennox left by the French doors and made her way into the garden.” “Why?” demanded Peter quickly. “That was when I suggest she dropped her handkerchief.” “Of course—I should have remembered.” “We know now,” continued Anthony, “the reason underlying her accusation of Llewellyn. Which you observe was a merely _general-indefinite_ sort of accusation. She wouldn’t give a definite reason for it—she kept silent about his attitude towards her—even to denying that she had been in this room.” “But why did she do that?” questioned Peter again. Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Most women are different about their love affairs in matters of this kind—after all Llewellyn found her attractive—she would probably forgive him that much more quickly than indifference—for instance. All women like to be liked—you know!” “I don’t think Miss Lennox is a girl of that type,” asserted Peter vigorously. “I think she has proved that by——” “Of course you don’t,” chaffed Anthony. “But whether you do or you don’t is of no consequence—take it from me.” Peter relapsed into a chair. It was gradually being driven home to him that he was not showing himself to the best advantage this afternoon. “What are you going to do now?” he asked. Anthony carefully put the letter into his breast pocket. “This certainly places Llewellyn in an unfavorable light,” he remarked. “He threatens the dead man—he’s Welsh, too—and has struck me throughout as a man who might make a dangerous enemy—still”—he pointed to the desk at the side of which Peter had seated himself. “Give me that bowl of ink,” he commanded. Peter obeyed—wondering again. Anthony held it up to the light. “Remember what Goodall said when he looked at this?” “Yes,” said Peter. “Something about understanding what you meant.”