Greta had no need to stifle her fury. A sudden panic descended upon her. “Bring me some hot water.” It took some time to remove the renovating mud, a little longer time to substitute perfumed creams and powder. A brief glimpse through an open door had revealed to Leslie Maughan the cause of the delay. She waited patiently, having some sympathy with woman’s losing fight against the ravages of time and care. When at length she was admitted, it was the old Greta who smiled ecstatically. “My dear! How wonderfully good of you to come! So sweet of you! I was so hoping that I should have another opportunity of meeting you. The princess is rather difficult, isn’t she? I did so want to have a little chat with you the last time we met. I admire your style awfully. Won’t you sit down somewhere? Yes, I’ve had an awful accident. I was cleaning my husband’s pistol and it went off, but fortunately no bones were broken.” “Where did this happen?” It was on the tip of Greta’s tongue to say “here,” but she thought better of it. “At a country house where I was staying for the week-end. People are so careless. Imagine leaving a pistol loaded! I nearly died of fright!” “What country house was this?” asked Leslie. Greta knit her brows. “What was the name of the place? I don’t know the people very well. Somewhere in Berkshire.” “Was your husband there, Mrs. Gurden?” “Er--no--but he had been staying at the place; left his box behind. I was rummaging through it and found his pistol, and it looked so awfully rusty and dirty that I thought I would clean it.” “Who else was hurt besides you?” asked Leslie quietly. Greta shot a swift, suspicious glance at the girl. “Nobody, thank goodness!” she said. Leslie waited a second, then: “Was this before or after Druze was killed?” Under the rouge Greta’s face went suddenly gray and pinched. She sat bolt upright in bed and stared at the girl. “Dead?” she said huskily. “Druze is dead? It’s a lie!” “Druze is dead! She was found last night on Barnes Common--shot!” “‘She?’” The woman’s forehead was puckered into lines. “‘She?’ What are you talking about? I was speaking of Druze.” “So was I,” said Leslie. “Druze was a woman; you know that.” The open mouth, the wide eyes, every visible expression of amazement revealed without question Greta Gurden’s ignorance of the “butler’s” sex. “A woman! Good heavens!” She sank back on the pillows, exhausted by her emotion, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. But for those wide-open pools of darkness, Leslie would have thought that the woman had fainted. Presently she spoke. “I’ve nothing to tell you. I shot myself by accident. I know nothing about Druze--nothing. Why should I? The accident occurred when I was in the country. I won’t talk to you! I won’t!” She almost screamed the words.