“Mr. Pointer, I've read the dreadful things they say of Jack Carter in the papers here. Are they true? I mean, did you _really_ find all those jewels in his trunk? You yourself? And does he still refuse to explain?” Pointer was quite honest with her. He told her exactly what the papers knew, but he did not add that the American police claimed to know Carter as Green. She said nothing for a minute or two, but sat down in her chair again, propping her chin on her hand, looking out of the window. She took up her story as though she had not asked any question. “And then on June nineteenth the Toronto papers were out in head-lines that both Rob and Jack had disappeared, and that a warrant was out for their arrest for embezzlement. And that's all I know.” “All?” asked Pointer very quietly. She flushed. “I had a letter from Jack and one from Rob sent me on June fifth from Toronto. Just a line—literally—to say good-bye and that I should hear from them again.” “Have you the letters?” “No, they were each marked ‘Burn,’ and I did so at once.” “And—did you hear from either of them again?” “Not a word. I saw Rob's death in the paper. I didn't recognise him in that picture as Eames, and then I—I read of Jack's dreadful trouble.” There was a long silence between the two. “And Mr. Beale? Where does he come in?” “Beale?” She repeated the name questioningly. “Who is he? Never heard the name that I know of.” “Humph! And Miss Heilbronner, what of her?” “She married still another man, so someone told me, shortly after the armistice. But Mr. Pointer, you're thinking of Rob Erskine. I'm not. Not for the moment. It's John Carter we must save. Poor Rob is killed, but Jack—” There were tears in her eyes which she winked resolutely away. “Mr. Pointer, you're a fair-minded man, one only has to look at you to see you wouldn't have a hand in faking up a case against an innocent man, and the case against Jack _is_ faked.” “Then why doesn't he speak out, Miss West?” “I can't imagine. I can't imagine!” She spoke as one who had tried hard enough, “but he's no murderer, far less a thief.” Pointer was sorry for her, and stirred uneasily in his chair. “You see, I knew him as a boy, and knew him as a young man. You can't make a mistake as to the very foundations of a character you've known so long and so intimately. Uncle Ian, too, loved him. He loved him better even than Rob, and Uncle Ian couldn't have cared for anyone who wasn't straight.” Again there was a silence between the two. Then she leant forward and laid a hand on Pointer's sleeve for a second. “Do _you_ think he's in danger, too, Mr. Pointer?” she whispered.