She switched on the lights, and they crossed to a corner of the room where on the wall hung, apparently, a small Rembrandt in a gilt frame. The picture must have been a very good copy, but it was no more. When Jane Raytham touched the frame it swung open like a door and showed behind a small, square safe set in the wall. Lady Raytham turned the key with a hand that shook--not even her iron nerve could conceal her emotion. Taking out a jewel box, she carried it to a table, pressed a hidden spring, and the lid flew open. And there the dumfounded Leslie saw the emerald chain--intact! Intact even to the square emerald pendant! Leslie picked up the jewel and surveyed it in bewilderment. Then, opening her bag, she brought to light the emerald that had been found in the dead hand of Druze and placed it by the side of the pendant of the chain. They were exactly alike. “Are there two chains?” she asked. “No,” said Jane Raytham. “Is that the one you wore to-night?” She nodded. Her eyes were flaming. Even under that terrible strain, she could not restrain her natural curiosity. “Where did you get that?” she asked. “We found it in Druze’s hand,” replied Leslie. The woman’s mouth opened in astonishment. “You found--nothing else? No other----” Again she stopped quickly. “No other part of the chain--no. Wasn’t it this you were looking for?” Leslie saw her expression change. Was it relief she detected? Certainly her tone was lighter and less strained when she spoke. “No, I wasn’t looking for that. Who killed him?” “Who do you think?” Eye to eye they stood, silent for the space of a second. “Why should I suspect anybody?” Leslie Maughan fired her second shot. “Shall I suggest a name?” she asked. “Peter Dawlish!” Again that quick upward jerk of the chin, as though she were meeting some sickening pain. “Peter Dawlish?” she said loudly. “Peter Dawlish! You’re mad--mad to think Peter Dawlish----” Without warning, she stumbled forward and Leslie had only time to throw out her arms and take the weight of her as she fell in a swoon to the ground. In a second Leslie had pressed the bell and had thrown open the door. The footman came running up. “Open one of those windows, and get me some brandy.” He gaped down at the white-faced woman on the floor. “Is her ladyship ill?” he asked. “Don’t ask questions! Open the window! Hurry.” And as the French windows were thrown violently open, she said: “Now get the brandy.” Before the man had come back, Jane Raytham had opened her eyes and stared inquiringly up into the face that was bent to hers. “What happened? I fainted. I’m a fool! Let us go out.” With Leslie’s assistance she rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’d better put your jewel case back in the safe, hadn’t I? Or perhaps you’d rather do it?” “It doesn’t matter,” said the woman listlessly. And in that moment Leslie Maughan guessed why Anthony Druze had died.