“You don’t think I am posing, do you?” she looked round at him suspiciously. “I see that you don’t. I am not in the least worried that I shall have to play the part with property jewels as I did last night.” “Why didn’t you go to the police before?” he asked. “Because I didn’t,” was her unsatisfactory but uncompromising reply. “You may put whatever interpretation you like upon my slackness. You may say or think that it was because of my humanity, my desire to save some person from being accused, or coming under suspicion of having stolen the pieces, when all the time they were smug in my bureau drawer, or you may think or say that I did not want to make a fuss about them. In fact,” she smiled, “you can do or say what you wish.” “You don’t remember who was standing by you--” She stopped him with a gesture. “I remember nothing except that I bought ten stamps.” “What was the jewelry worth?” he persisted. She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t even tell you that,” she said. “Had they any history?” She laughed. “You are very persistent, Mr. Tab.” Her eyes were smiling at him, though her face was composed. “And now, since you have surprised me in my Abode of Quiet, I must show you over my little domain.” She took him round the garden and through the tiny pine-wood at the back of the house, chatting all the time, and then after leaving him, as she said, to ensure that her room was tidy, she beckoned him into a large and pleasant sitting-room, tastefully, if not expensively furnished, a cool, quiet haven of rest. He had arrived at two o’clock and it was five o’clock before he reluctantly took his leave. And all that afternoon they had talked of books and of people and since she had not mentioned or spoken of the murder which had engrossed his thoughts until her soothing presence had made Mayfield seem very remote and crime a thing of distaste, he did not introduce so jarring a discordance into the lavender atmosphere of her retreat. “What kind of a story do you call this?” snapped the news editor when Tab handed him two folios of copy. “From a literary point of view,” said Tab, “it is a classic.” “From a news point of view, it is rotten,” said the editor. “The only new fact you have discovered is that she loves Browning and maybe even the police know that!” He grumbled but accepted the copy and with his blue pencil committed certain acts of savage mutilation, what time was Tab making his final round-up of the Trasmere case. Here again, very little new matter was available. Walters and the man Wellington Brown were still at liberty, and he had to confine himself to a sketch of Trasmere’s life, material for which had, from time to time, been supplied to him by Babe.