Derrick Yale sat with his head on his hands, reading a newspaper. He had read a dozen that morning, and one by one he had cast them aside to open another. “Under the eyes of the police,” he quoted. “Incompetence at Police Head-quarters.” He shook his head. “They are giving our poor friend Parr a bad time in this morning’s press,” he said as he threw the paper aside, “and yet he was as incapable of preventing that crime as you or I, Miss Drummond.” Thalia Drummond looked a little peaked that morning. There were dark circles about her eyes, and an air of general listlessness which was in contrast to her usual cheerful buoyancy. “If you’re in that game you expect to get kicks, don’t you?” she asked coolly. “The police can’t have it all their own way.” He looked at her curiously. “You aren’t a particular admirer of police methods, are you, Miss Drummond?” he asked. “Not tremendously,” she replied, as she laid a stack of correspondence before him. “You aren’t expecting me to get up testimonials to the efficiency of head-quarters, are you?” He laughed quietly. “You’re a strange girl,” he said. “Sometimes I think that you were born without compassion. And you worked for Froyant, too, didn’t you?” “Yes,” she said shortly. “You lived some time in the house?” She did not reply, but her grey eyes met his steadily. “I did live some time in the house,” she admitted. “Why do you ask that?” “I wondered if you knew of the existence of this underground room?” said Derrick Yale carelessly. “Of course I knew of the room. Poor Mr. Froyant made no secret of his cleverness. He has told me a dozen times how much it cost,” she added with a faint smile. He cogitated a moment. “Where were the keys usually kept that opened the door of the bomb-proof room?” “In Mr. Froyant’s desk. Are you suggesting that I have had access to them, or that I was concerned in last night’s murder?” He laughed. “I am not suggesting anything,” he said. “I am merely inquiring, and as you seem to know a great deal more about the house than most of the people who live in it, my curiosity is natural. Would it be possible, do you think, to push up that trap without making a noise?” “Quite,” she said. “The trap-door works on counter-balances. Are you going to answer any of those letters?” He pushed the pile of letters aside. “What were you doing last night, Miss Drummond?” This time his method was more direct. “I spent my evening at home,” she said. Her hands went behind her, and that curious rigidity which he had noticed before stiffened her frame. “Did you spend the whole of the evening at home?” She did not answer. “Isn’t it a fact that about half-past eight you went out, carrying a small parcel?” Again she made no reply. “One of my men accidentally saw you,” said Derrick Yale carelessly, “and then lost sight of you. Where did you spend the evening--you did not return to your flat until nearly eleven o’clock at night.”