Manners did not go to his hotel when he left Lyda. He walked for miles. He was happy. He was proud. He was wretched. He was ashamed. He believed in Lyda Pavoya. He doubted her. There would not have been room for the volcano of his feelings between four walls. That moment when he had held her in his arms had been the most wonderful if not the greatest in his life. But it had been only a moment. Her surrender for a few seconds had seemed to him then the most exquisite thing in the world: the childlike longing for a man's chivalrous protection, in the heart of a woman who had known little chivalry! In an instant she had drawn herself gently away, and he had not held her. He had wished Lyda to know that, if he did not understand everything, at least he understood why she had crept into his arms for that brief breathing space, and that he would take no advantage of her yielding. He had armoured himself with an almost exaggerated friendliness afterward; and for a while they had talked not at all of themselves, but of Juliet and Pat. They tried to form some theory which might account for the disappearance of the pearls from the locked safe whose combination was known to only two persons; the replacing of the parcel there, sealed with fresh seals. They had striven to implicate Markoff in the affair, but all their deductions stumbled against the same blank wall in the end. It seemed impossible that Markoff could even have entered the house, much less have got into the study or opened the safe. Lyda did not know how Pat had obtained the money to help her out with the payment to Markoff. It had not seemed strange to her that he should have it. Looking back, it seemed strange now. Yet it was incredible that he should have juggled with the packet, and risked losing his wife's respect by palming off false pearls on her, in order to get money for another woman. Incredible! And yet, Lyda said, like one in a dream, that he was the only person who could have done the thing--_except herself_! "I know _I_ didn't do it, and--yes, I know he didn't do it!" she cried to Jack. So, again and again they came through darkness to that blank wall! And at last, deadly tired in body and brain, Lyda sent Manners away. He was all exaltation at first. The glamour and perfume of her ran through his veins. She was noble, magnificent. It was great of this glowing creature to trust him so generously, to tell him her life story, putting herself in his power in a way, for the sake of Claremanagh's happiness. It was fine of her to say he might repeat all to Juliet, who--Lyda must know--detested and distrusted her with the obstinacy of a spoiled, jealous child: to say that, if necessary, a detective might be trusted with her secrets.