“I know you were being blackmailed; that the necklace you gave was part of the price; the twenty thousand pounds, which I imagine was all you could raise in cash, was the other part. I guess also that Druze was a blackmailer. Am I right?” Jane nodded. There was a perceptible brightening of her face as though, fearing to hear worse, she was experiencing relief at the limitation of the girl’s knowledge. “How long have you been paying?” She did not answer, and Leslie repeated the question. “I don’t know. Quite a long time.” Another silence. The truth was not to come yet, then, only a measure of it. “Do you want to tell me any more?” she asked. Jane Raytham drooped her head. She wanted to tell--just as much as this frank and friendly girl knew, hoping against hope that the more precious secret would remain with her, and yet almost praying that Leslie Maughan would suddenly drag forth the grisly skeleton and expose it to her eyes. “Yes, I want to, terribly! But I shan’t. I can’t bring myself to put things into words. And I want your help. How badly I need it! But, my dear, you’re police, part of the machinery of Scotland Yard. I’ve told you too much already. I shall be living in a flutter of fear all day----” “I’m Leslie Maughan in this flat,” said Leslie, smiling. “Just a sort of little sister of the human race! But I’ll warn you that I am determined, as far as I can, to find the murderer of that wretched woman. Short of that information you can tell me anything.” Jane shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know who killed Druze. I will not swear that, but I will tell you on my word I don’t know; I do not even suspect. Anita wanted to know. I called on her this morning. She is like a woman distraught. I never knew she felt so deeply. The police have been there to inquire whether Druze called. I suppose you told them last night that I had told you. Poor Anita! She was terribly fond of Druze, who was once in her service. She always contended that he hadn’t been, and talked about him as though he were the merest stranger. But that, I think, was her pride; she hated the thought that she had ever been so poverty-stricken that she was obliged to let him go--her, I mean. The habit of years takes a lot of breaking! I have thought of Druze as a man and spoken of him as a man so long, that it is difficult to get out of the trick.” “One question I want to ask you, Lady--Jane, I’d better call you. It will be almost as difficult a habit to get into! Did Druze forge Lord Everreed’s name as Peter Dawlish thinks he did?” Jane Raytham shook her head. “That is impossible,” she said simply. “Why impossible?” The answer took Leslie Maughan’s breath away. “Because she could not read or write!” CHAPTER X. A DOCTOR’S CONFESSION