She was polite, almost frigidly so, and Leslie could only look at her in wonder. All the evidence of distress and terror that had marked her face on the night before had vanished--all except that dark tint under the eyes. “Won’t you sit down? Have you had breakfast?” asked Leslie practically. Lady Raytham shook her head. “Please don’t bother about me. I have plenty of time and can wait,” she said. There was a certain resentful admiration in her gaze; she was thinking how few women of her acquaintance were presentable at such an hour and in such circumstances. She had never seen Leslie Maughan in the daytime before, and not only did she stand the test of the cruel morning light, but she looked even prettier. She liked the poise of the girl and the readiness with which she accepted this sensible suggestion and disappeared into the bathroom, the gawky maid, her arms laden with garments, following. By the time she came out, Lucretia Brown had laid a little table; huge blue coffee cups and china racks bristling with crisp brown toast. “No, I couldn’t eat, thank you.” Lady Raytham shook her head. “I will have some coffee.” Leslie looked significantly at the door and Lucretia regretfully disappeared. “Yes, I slept,” said Jane Raytham listlessly. “I don’t know how or why, but I did. I suppose I just couldn’t sleep any more. There is nothing about the murder in the newspapers.” Leslie made a mental calculation. “There wouldn’t be; it will be in the evening press. I know all about Druze.” “You know--about her?” Jane Raytham looked at her steadily. “What was her name?” asked Leslie, but the other woman shook her head. “I don’t know; she was always Druze to me.” “Did your husband know----” “That she was a woman?” She shook her head. “No. Poor Raytham! He’d have had a fit! But then, he never notices anything.” She had married the first Baron Raytham when he was a little over fifty, bachelor-minded, a man of set habits, who had found himself most unexpectedly a benedict and was a little aghast at the discovery. For the greater part of a year he had striven to be the model husband, and had been something of a bore. The domestic habit was foreign to him. Society and all its dainty et ceteras he loathed. Before the end of the first year of their married life, he had given up all attempt to interest himself in the new complexities which marriage had brought. Thereafter he devoted his energies and thoughts to his concession--his boards of directors, balance sheets, and all the precious things which were life for him--and Jane Raytham was left very much to her own devices. “My husband is very seldom in London--probably not two months a year. He has”--she hesitated--“other interests.”