Leslie was still dressed. She had been waiting in the maid’s room, a pistol on her lap, till the sound of the struggle brought her out, just too late. Mr. Coldwell disappeared into the bedroom and returned with the ugly and curious-shaped knife which the man had dropped. “Eastern,” he said, as he felt the edge gingerly. “Malayan, I guess.” He also had been sitting on a chair immediately to the right of the wardrobe, but until he had made an examination later he had not known from what place his assailant had come. “I thought he’d come back through the window,” he mused. “That’s one of the curiosities of human nature, Leslie; jot it down in your notebook. We always look _under_ things for hidden criminals; we never look over; and yet the cleverest fellow that ever got away from the police was a steeplejack who hid for a fortnight at the top of a smokestack! Ever wear garters, Leslie?” She laughed softly. “That almost sounds indelicate to me,” she said. “No, I won’t go very deeply into the question, but I don’t wear garters!” He was quite serious. “Wish you would, just to oblige me. One garter, anyhow. I meant to give it to you to-day.” He drew something out of his pocket and she gasped. “You really wish me to wear this?” He nodded. “A little heavy, but I wish you would,” he said. He insisted upon staying the night, and to make doubly sure had a policeman put on duty in the hall below. Early as the hour was when she went out to her bath, she found him up and dressed, studying the morning newspaper. “Wonderful how you miss things when you’re away from the Yard for a few hours,” he drawled. She turned back from the open door of the bathroom. When Mr. Coldwell drawled, there was something sensational to come. “What have we missed?” she asked. It was not entirely curiosity which made her ask. He looked at the newspaper again and took off his glasses. “Peter Dawlish was arrested last night.” She gazed at him in horror and amazement. “Arrested? On what charge?” “Threatening to murder Princess Anita Bellini,” was the staggering reply. CHAPTER XV. TRAPPED Rarely did Mrs. Greta Gurden permit herself the luxury of brooding upon her injuries. She was no philosopher, and it was sheer necessity which made her disregard the irritations, petty and great, of life, and concentrate her mind upon pleasant things. But she found herself helpless with a leg that throbbed and throbbed, and the memory of Anita Bellini’s insolence rankled as sorely. She was propped up in bed with a heap of papers on her lap. Though there was no immediate need for the work she had taken in hand, and, in truth, sought it only as a relief from boredom, she permitted herself the illusion that she was the victim of a task mistress who was not satisfied with her normal and heavy exactions, but must needs add to her offence this torment of a sick woman.