“What would you have done in my place, I wonder,” he said quietly. “Sybil’s heart was in such a state that any shock might prove fatal. Lee was hopelessly insane, incapable even of recognizing her. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the mere sight of him would have killed her. Rather than take the chance of the knowledge of his existence reaching her now, I would kill you, here in this room, with my own hands, and take the consequences.” He spoke quite gently, but his voice carried conviction and Fayre realized that he would shrink from nothing in the effort to spare his wife. “Sybil knows,” he said and, even as he spoke, he felt that he would have given anything to unsay the words. For the first time Kean’s composure deserted him. His face became suddenly grey and lined. “Impossible!” Then, with sudden vehemence: “Do you realize what you’re saying? Good God, man, it can’t be true!” “It is true, unless I’ve made some ghastly mistake,” answered Fayre steadily. “I thought she had discovered it and was keeping the secret from you.” “My God, if that woman told her!” muttered Kean. “It’s the only explanation. What have you got to go on?” “A letter Sybil wrote me, which reached me just after I had come on the photograph of Lee. I took it for granted that that was what she was alluding to.” “You didn’t speak to her about it?” “I haven’t seen her since. I had meant to, but there’s been no opportunity.” Kean sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “Thank God!” he murmured. “There’s some mistake. It’s impossible that she should have found out. She would never . . .” He was interrupted by the insistent peal of the telephone-bell. With a half-frenzied exclamation he tore the receiver from its hook. “Yes, Sir Edward Kean speaking,” he said mechanically, his mind entirely occupied with the revelation Fayre had just made. Then, as he listened, the already ghastly pallor of his face increased. “It’s Sybil,” he said, hardly above his breath as he dropped the receiver. “They’ve rung up from Westminster. It’s another attack.” For a moment he sat staring blankly into space; then he turned to Fayre with a look of almost childish entreaty in his eyes. “I must go to her, Hatter. For heaven’s sake, don’t keep me now!” For answer Fayre picked up Kean’s hat and coat and handed them to him. “We must have this out soon, Edward,” he said gravely. “No matter what happens.” Kean was already struggling himself into his coat. “At the earliest opportunity I promise you a full explanation. Will that do, Hatter?” Fayre nodded. A moment later he was alone with his troubled thoughts. He strolled over to the table and, picking up the snapshot, put it back into his notecase. As he did so the door opened and Farrer, the old head clerk, looked in. “I thought I heard Sir Edward go out, sir,” he said.