But as the chill of the night iced his veins, Jack's mood changed. Juliet's point of view suddenly showed itself sharply to his eyes. It was as if she had come from round the corner of the last street he had passed, to walk with him. _Had_ Lyda told him the story for Claremanagh's sake and Juliet's? _Why not for her own_--in the daring wish to make a "friend at court?" Would that not be more like her--more like the woman she was supposed to be? She knew that he had seen her go into the Phayre house; that he must have guessed she was hidden in the study; that he was Juliet's cousin and would naturally be inclined to work for Juliet's interest. Would it not be a bold and clever stroke to win him to her side? If it were some other man, not himself, whose prejudices had been thus broken down in an hour by a woman's eyes and voice, wouldn't he pity the poor idiot who believed that he alone fathomed the depths of her smile? Lyda practically admitted that she had fooled many men. Some of them had doubtless known far more about women than he knew. Why, she must have been laughing at him all through! He had been a child in her hands! Lies that were half truths could be welded into a fabric hard to break down. No doubt there were true details in that life history of Pavoya. But how many true ones? And was it "fine" of her to "consent" that he should tell Juliet, and if necessary a detective? Wasn't that just what she'd worked up to, and wanted? Wasn't she purposely turning suspicion toward Pat when she said, as if dazed, that only he or she could have changed the pearls? Jack heard himself again, warmly promising that they two should work together, that they'd drag up the mystery by the roots, and that Juliet should beg her pardon. A spider's dainty web of opal-gauze, glittering with dew, must look a fairy palace to a big, blundering bluebottle! Did such a man as Markoff from Petrograd even _exist_? Dawn flowed like a pale river through the canyons of the New York streets when Manners' walk ended at his own hotel. He felt as if he had been through a battle--a battle that he hadn't won. But a cold splash, and then dead sleep for an hour, braced him physically. He woke with a start, as if somebody had knocked; yet no one was at the door. The thought of food disgusted him; hot, strong black coffee, however, was refreshing. It was early still, yet he was sure that Juliet would be awake, and called her up, learning at once that she had no news. Yes, he _had_ things to tell, he answered her eager question. "Not news exactly, but important." Before going to her, however, he intended to see the detective they'd talked about: a man named Henry Sanders--used to be in the police--sharp chap; had the nickname of "Hawkeye Harry"; retired, but got bored with doing nothing, and started as a private detective; had made a big success in the last few years; absolutely to be trusted: silent as the grave and sharp as a razor.