“He threatened to send for the police,” she went on rapidly, “and I told him he might do so. I didn't mind the police--it was Kara I was afraid of. You know what I went for, my mother's property.” She held the snuff-box in her outstretched hand. “He accused me of stealing and was hateful, and then he put me downstairs in that awful cellar and--” “And?” suggested T. X. “That's all,” she replied with tightened lips; “what are you going to do now?” “I am going to ask you a few questions if I may,” he said. “In the first place have you not heard anything about Mr. Kara since you went away?” She shook her head. “I have kept out of his way,” she said grimly. “Have you seen the newspapers?” he asked. She nodded. “I have seen the advertisement column--I wired asking Papa to reply to my telegram.” “I know--I saw it,” he smiled; “that is what brought me here.” “I was afraid it would,” she said ruefully; “father is awfully loquacious in print--he makes speeches you know. All I wanted him to say was yes or no. What do you mean about the newspapers?” she went on. “Is anything wrong with mother?” He shook his head. “So far as I know Lady Bartholomew is in the best of health and is on her way home.” “Then what do you mean by asking me about the newspapers!” she demanded; “why should I see the newspapers--what is there for me to see?” “About Kara?” he suggested. She shook her head in bewilderment. “I know and want to know nothing about Kara. Why do you say this to me?” “Because,” said T. X. slowly, “on the night you disappeared from Cadogan Square, Remington Kara was murdered.” “Murdered,” she gasped. He nodded. “He was stabbed to the heart by some person or persons unknown.” T. X. took his hand from his pocket and pulled something out which was wrapped in tissue paper. This he carefully removed and the girl watched with fascinated gaze, and with an awful sense of apprehension. Presently the object was revealed. It was a pair of scissors with the handle wrapped about with a small handkerchief dappled with brown stains. She took a step backward, raising her hands to her cheeks. “My scissors,” she said huskily; “you won't think--” She stared up at him, fear and indignation struggling for mastery. “I don't think you committed the murder,” he smiled; “if that's what you mean to ask me, but if anybody else found those scissors and had identified this handkerchief you would have been in rather a fix, my young friend.” She looked at the scissors and shuddered. “I did kill something,” she said in a low voice, “an awful dog... I don't know how I did it, but the beastly thing jumped at me and I just stabbed him and killed him, and I am glad,” she nodded many times and repeated, “I am glad.” “So I gather--I found the dog and now perhaps you'll explain why I didn't find you?” Again she hesitated and he felt that she was hiding something from him. “I don't know why you didn't find me,” she said; “I was there.” “How did you get out?”