“That explains everything--the chain on the door and old Simms being on guard. I never saw the old devil again after I broke in.” She made no attempt to hide her astonishment. “I don’t see why a chain on Anita Bellini’s door explains a little yellow man in my room,” she said. “It does--most emphatically.” Just then his name was called by the court usher and she followed him into court. Peter had hardly been put in the steel pen when the detective sergeant who had arrested him stood up, and addressed the bench. “This case, your Worship, arose from a visit which the prisoner paid to the house of the Princess Anita Bellini last night. The prisoner, who is a very distant relative of the princess’s, had some sort of grievance, and the argument became so heated that Her Highness was compelled to telephone for the police. The princess has no wish to prosecute the prisoner in the circumstances, or to bring a family quarrel into court, and in these circumstances I don’t propose to produce any evidence, your worship.” “But the charge is attempted murder,” said the presiding magistrate. “The charge was only taken last night,” explained the detective, “and it was the intention of the police to ask for a remand. But the princess has modified her statement, and I am advised that a conviction could not follow on the evidence that she would offer. In those circumstances I ask your worship to discharge Dawlish.” The magistrate nodded, and that was the end of the proceedings. Peter walked out of the dock and joined the girl in front of the police court. At first he refused her invitation to drive him back to town. “You’re coming with me,” she said firmly. “I have a lot of things to say to you and a list of questions as long as Lucretia’s grocery order. Probably you will not answer them, but that is beside the point.” They were crossing Putney Common when she leaned over and spoke to the driver, and, slowing down, he brought the car to the edge of the path. “Let us go for a little walk,” she said, and no sooner were they out of earshot than she asked: “Why did you go to Princess Bellini’s last night, Peter Dawlish?” “To find out something.” “What did you want to know?” Should he tell her? He could not understand himself. Why should he hesitate to take her into his confidence, she who knew so much? And yet he felt an unaccountable shyness. It was as though the confession would make a perceptible difference in their curious friendship. At last he blurted out the truth. “Jane had a child,” he said. She stopped, and her deep violet eyes met his. “_Your_ child--well?” He was astonished by the coolness with which she received this momentous news. “Did you guess?” he asked. She shook her head. “I knew,” she answered quietly. “It was born at a little farm called Appledore, near Carlisle.” He was momentarily paralyzed. “You knew--all the time?” he stammered.