In that instant Leslie detected a tremor in the woman’s voice. Anita Bellini, the formidable, had a weak spot, after all. But she recovered herself very quickly. “If everybody had his due, Peter Dawlish would be under arrest,” she said, and, ignoring the protests of Jane: “The man hated Druze; you know that quite well, Jane. He threatened her; I can prove it!” And then, in a conciliatory tone: “I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Maughan. If I can help you I will. Is there any more you can tell me than appears in the evening newspaper?” “Nothing,” said Leslie shortly. They left together soon after, but before they departed, Leslie found an opportunity of speaking a few words to Jane Raytham. “I don’t want you to tell anybody about the necklace,” she said in a low voice, as she accompanied her down the stairs. “Especially about the emerald that was found in Druze’s hand. You promise me? Or have you already told?” Jane Raytham shook her head. “I wondered why you hadn’t put that in the statement,” she suggested. “But you may trust me. I shall not speak about it, even to Anita.” At that moment the voice of the princess hailed her from the foot of the stairs and further conversation became impossible. Leslie arrived at Scotland Yard just before twelve, and was mounting the stone stairs as Peter Dawlish came down. “A clean bill,” he said with a smile. “At any rate, that is the impression Coldwell gives me. It seems that your detective man’s search was a very thorough one; I suppose you know that he searched me also? And, by the way, Belinda sends her love.” “Belinda?” Leslie was momentarily bewildered. “Oh, you mean that little child, Elizabeth. How wicked! I had almost forgotten her!” “She hasn’t forgotten you,” said Peter, and with a cheery wave of his hand went on. She found Mr. Coldwell in his big, comfortable office, the stub of a cigar between his teeth, his bristling brows gathered in thought. “Just going to phone you,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen that man of yours, and I’m satisfied that he had nothing to do with the crime.” “‘That man of mine’ being Peter Dawlish?” she said calmly. “You give me quite a proprietorial feeling!” From her bag she took the statement that Lady Raytham had signed and laid it on the table before him. He read it through carefully, folded it up and slipped it into a drawer. “Did you tell Anita Bellini about the emerald we found in Druze’s hand?” he asked. “No,” she said. “That’s the last thing in the world I should have told her; I asked Lady Raytham not to tell either. Why?” He smiled grimly.