"It's twenty minutes past seven. There's a train from Victoria to Brighton at 7.50. If I got a decent cab I ought to have time to catch it, and to spare. If I do catch it, I ought to be able to get all the information I want in time to catch the last train back to town. If I don't, I'll wire." This was to his wife. He turned to his niece. "You keep a still tongue in your head, if you can, and don't go chattering at the theatre. And don't let anything that was that young woman's pass out of your hands to any one--do you hear?" "I hear. But, uncle, I don't, and I can't, believe that Milly's sweetheart had anything to do with killing her." "No one asks you for what you believe. I've been asking you for what you know. And that's all I'm likely to ask you for. You mark what I say, and don't you give a scrap of her writing to any one. I'm off." He was off, catching up the portraits from the table as he went. As soon as her uncle had gone Miss Johnson turned to Mr. Haines. "If you want to see those letters, you'll have to come now. I have to be at the theatre soon after eight." The young girl and the old man went away together. Miss Johnson led the way through Coventry Street. Suddenly stopping, she caught Mr. Haines by the arm. "Oh! There he is!" "Who?" "Milly's sweetheart." "Where?" Miss Johnson pointed to a tall man who was standing on the pavement talking to the driver of a hansom cab. Mr. Haines started. His companion felt that he was trembling. He spoke as if he were short of breath. "Are you sure?" "Quite sure--certain." Mr. Haines went forward without a word. Miss Johnson stood still and watched, fearing she knew not what. But she need have feared nothing, for nothing happened. By the time that Mr. Haines had reached the cab the man in question had seated himself inside. Mr. Haines had a good look at him before the cab moved off. "It's he! Her aristocrat! I knew that he smelt of blood first time I saw him, but if I'd known that the blood was hers----" He raised his hands above his head, as if by way of a wind-up to his unfinished sentence. The passers-by stared at the old man talking to himself and gesticulating on the pavement, wondering, perhaps, if he was drunk or if he was merely mad. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE VARIOUS MOODS OF A GENTLEMAN OF FASHION. Mr. Townsend was shaving himself. Advancing his face an inch or two nearer his shaving-glass, with his fingers he smoothed his chin. "Very awkward," he said. "Very!" The allusion could scarcely have been to the process in which he was engaged. Everything had gone with smoothness. Not even a scratch had marred the perfect peace. Mr. Townsend concluded that his chin was as clean shaven as it possibly could be. He put his razor down. He took up a cigarette. He lighted it. "Exceedingly awkward!"