"Because I must," he went on. "Listen. There are other things. This man Starling, for instance, whom I met at your house, and who is suspected of the murder of Rosario--both your brother and you seem to be trying to shield him. I don't understand it; I can't understand it. Your brother talked to me strangely the night I dined with him, but half the time I felt that he was not serious. I do not for a moment believe that he would stoop to any undignified or criminal action. I believe in him as I do in you. Yet if Starling is guilty, why do you both protect him?" "Is there anything else?" she faltered. "There is the final thing," he reminded her; "the reason why I have mentioned these matters to you at all--I mean the disappearance of Mr. Weatherley. Supposing he does not come back, how am I to keep silent, knowing all that I know, knowing that he was living in a house surrounded by mysteries? I hate my suspicions. They are like ugly shadows which follow me about. I like and admire your brother, and you--you know--" He could not finish his sentence. She raised her eyes and he saw that they were full of tears. "Help me," he begged. "You can if you will. Give me your confidence and I will tell you something which I think that even you do not know." "Something concerned with these happenings?" "Something concerned with them," he assented. "I will tell you when and by whom the body of that man was removed from your sitting-room." She sat looking at him like a woman turned to stone. There was incredulity in her eyes, incredulity and horror. "You cannot know that!" she faltered. "I do know it," he asserted. "Why have you kept this a secret from me?" she asked. "I do not know," he answered. "Somehow or other, when I have been with you I have felt more anxious to talk of other things. Then there was another reason which made me anxious to forget the whole affair if I could. I had some knowledge of one of the men who were concerned in taking him away." The waiter was busy now with the removal of their luncheon. To Arnold, the necessary exchange of commonplaces was an immense relief. It was several minutes before they were alone again. Then she leaned across towards him. She had lit a cigarette now, and, although she was very thoughtful, she seemed more at her ease. "Listen," she began. "I do not ask you to tell me anything more about that night--I do not wish to hear anything. Tell me instead exactly what it is that you want from me!" "I want nothing more nor less," he answered gently, "than permission to be your friend and to possess a little more of your confidence. I want you to end this mystery which surrounds the things of which I have spoken." "And supposing," she said thoughtfully, "supposing I find that my obligations to other people forbid me to discuss these matters any more with you?"