“She sent me--Anita,” Mrs. Gurden broke in. “‘Go to Jane, but tell her nothing,’ said Anita. ‘Find out all that you can about Druze--how they parted, if she threatened her.’ Those were her words. You know Anita--she’s--what is the word? Imperious! I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels--like that Mr. What’s-his-name who’s written a story about women. I simply had to! And not an idea in my head that a beastly bullet had gone into my leg. The doctor said that if I hadn’t run about the wound would have healed right away. It was only when I got home, my dear, I nearly died!” She paused to take breath. “I suppose she’ll come to-morrow and ask me to go back. I’m such a forgiving nature.” “If there is anything in life that you value, you will stay here, Mrs. Gurden,” said Leslie quietly. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I think it is my duty to warn you that the Princess Bellini’s course is nearly run. As to Druze----” She had never thought that Druze was murdered; always she had had at the back of her mind the possibility of a struggle in which the shots were accidentally fired. There was a good and sufficient reason why Anita Bellini should not shoot the mock butler. When she reached her flat, the front door was closed. She opened it and turned on the passage light. Lucretia and the grips were gone, she saw with satisfaction. In the letter box was a blue-lettered cablegram and she snatched it out and opened it. This was a reply to one she had sent on her way back from lunch, and she read the message and could have sung in her joy. She ran up the stairs, her mind divided between this blessed message and her interview with Greta Gurden. Greta was in revolt; that much was clear. But how far would her rage and venom carry her toward a complete betrayal of her employer? As she passed the hall window, she noticed that the new safety catch was in place. Really it was ridiculous to leave the flat at all, she thought. After that one attempt it was not likely that a second would be made. She almost regretted now that she had agreed to Mr. Coldwell’s plan. Throwing open the door of her sitting room, she put out her hand and turned the light switch. But the room remained in darkness. Had they replaced the fuses? she wondered, and walked into the room. There was no sound, no warning. A great hand suddenly gripped her throat, another covered her mouth. She felt the pressure of a knee in her back and struggled desperately but unavailingly. “You scream--you killed!” whispered a voice in her ear, and, summoning all her strength, she tried to nod in agreement with the unspoken demand of her captor. The door closed softly behind her. There were two men. She felt her ankles gripped and lifted, and she was carried into the bedroom and laid on the bed. “You scream--you killed!” said the voice again. The grip about her throat relaxed, but the evil-smelling hand was still on her face.