Her breath came faster; she could only look into those dark eyes in fear and try as best she could to order her thoughts. Dark eyes--violet, not the burned brown of Greta’s, but a violet that was almost black. A detective--this slip of a girl! She was well dressed, too; the femininity in Jane Raytham took stock of it unconsciously. The gloves were from Renaud’s; only Renaud cut that quaint, half-gauntlet wrist. “Won’t you tell me? It might save you so much unhappiness. We try to do that at the Yard--save people unhappiness. You’d never dream that, would you? But the police are more like big brothers than ogres. Won’t you?” Jane Raytham shook her head; it was a mistake, the only one she made, to attempt speech. “No, I won’t!” she said breathlessly. “There is nothing to tell. Your interference is unwarrantable. I shall write. I shall write.” She swayed, and instantly Leslie Maughan was by her side; and the strength of her grip was the second surprise that Jane Raytham had. With an effort, she wrenched her arm free. “Now you can go, please! And if I do not report you, it is because I think you have acted in ignorance--overzeal.” She nodded toward the door, and Leslie slowly gathered up her bag and her umbrella. “If you ever want me, you will find my telephone number on my card.” Lady Raytham still held the crumpled card in her hand. Now she looked at it and very deliberately walked to the fire and dropped it into the flames. “Or the telephone book,” said Leslie, as she went out. Druze was in the hall, dry-washing his hands with nervous rapidity. He hastened to the street door and opened it. “Good-night, miss,” he said huskily, and she looked at him and shivered. Why Leslie Maughan shivered she did not know, but she had at that moment a vivid and terrifying illusion. It was as though she were looking into the blank eyes of one who was already dead. CHAPTER III. MEETING PETER Leslie came striding briskly along the Thames Embankment. It was a bitterly cold night, and the nutria coat was not proof against the icy norther that was blowing. The man who walked by her side was head and shoulders taller than she. He had the gait of a soldier, and his umbrella twirled rhythmically to his pace. “Suicide on the left,” he said pleasantly, as though he were a guide pointing out the sights. The girl checked her pace and looked back. “Really? You don’t mean that, Mr. Coldwell?” Her eyes were fixed upon the dark figure sprawling across the parapet, his arms resting on the granite crown, his chin on his hands. He was a gaunt figure of a man, differing in no respect from the waifs who would gather here from midnight onward, and strive to snatch a little sleep between the policeman’s visits. “It is any odds,” said Mr. Coldwell carefully, “when you see one of these birds watching the river in that way, he is thinking up a new way of settling old accounts. Are you interested--sentimentally?” She hesitated.