He started forward as Mrs. Tretheroe, with a sharp moan, slid heavily to the ground; with the help of Chilford and Valencia he got her out of the room, and sent Braxfield for the housekeeper. Leaving her and Valencia with Mrs. Tretheroe, he and Chilford went back to the other three men. The Chief Constable, his hands behind him, was leaning against the big mantelpiece; Harborough, very white, faced him from the other side of the table; Harry Markenmore stood a little way off, glancing doubtfully from one to the other. “An awkward—but a decidedly definite accusation, Mr. Harborough,” the Chief Constable was saying. “She seemed to have no hesitation in making it!” “You saw that she made it in a moment of intense excitement,” said Harborough. “And of—of grief.” “It’s precisely in these moments—in my experience—that truth gets blurted out,” observed the Chief Constable drily. “However, as she said it before the lot of us, perhaps you’ll tell me something for your own sake. Did you ever make such a threat as that she spoke of?—did you ever threaten to kill Guy Markenmore, whenever and wherever you next met?” Chilford gave a dry, deprecatory cough. “I’m not Mr. Harborough’s solicitor,” he said, “but if I were, I should strongly advise him not to answer that question, Chief Constable. You know.” “This isn’t a court of law,” retorted the Chief Constable. “It’s a private conversation between gentlemen. As Mrs. Tretheroe said what she did before us, Mr. Harborough has the right to say his say—before us.” “I will say!” exclaimed Harborough suddenly. “I did make such a threat—years ago. It was made under great provocation—the greatest provocation. But—all that’s died out, long since—I mean the feeling of anger—and so on—has died out in me. If I’d met Guy Markenmore, now—or any time these last four or five years—I’d have shaken hands with him.” “Good!” said the Chief Constable. He pointed to Harry, and looked at Harborough. “For his—and his sister’s—satisfaction,” he went on, “tell me—when did you last see Guy Markenmore?” Harborough, too, looked at Harry. And as he looked, Valencia came back into the room. He turned towards her. “I’ll tell you,” he said quietly. “I’ve never set eyes on Guy Markenmore for seven years. I know nothing whatever of the circumstances of his death—nothing!” The Chief Constable nodded; the other men made no remark. But Valencia looked at Harborough steadily for a moment; he, too, looked at her; it seemed to Mr. Fransemmery’s keenly watchful eyes that a glance of intelligence passed between them. Then she went up to her brother, tapped him on the arm, and turned to the Chief Constable. “Aren’t there things to be done?—preparations to make?” she asked. “Will you tell me about them?”