“What happened then?” “He went back to my house with me.” “I believe you were entertaining a house-party, Mrs. Tretheroe?” “Yes.” “A large one?” “Eight, altogether.” “Did you introduce Mr. Guy Markenmore to your guests when you took him in?” “No, I didn’t. They were playing bridge, some of them—some were playing billiards. He didn’t see any of them.” “Where did you and he go, in your house?” “We went up to my boudoir.” The Coroner leaned still nearer. “We have heard—from Sir Harry Markenmore—that his brother spoke of an appointment, which he hurried away to keep? Now—was that appointment with you?” “No—certainly not!” “Did he mention any appointment to you?” “Yes—merely to say that he had one—close by.” “Close by? Did he say with whom, or where?” “No, he did not. He merely mentioned the fact—casually. I didn’t question him about it.” “And—how long did he stay with you at the Dower House?” Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated—obviously, not from uncertainty. “The question is a highly important one,” said the Coroner. “Well, he stayed until a quarter to twelve,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe. “Then he was with you about an hour?” “About an hour—yes.” “Alone—all the time?” “Yes.” “Did any of your guests—or any of your servants—see him, coming or going?” “No one saw him. He and I entered the house by a side door, of which I have the key always in my possession. We went straight up to my boudoir. I let him out of the house in the same way. No—nobody saw him.” “You let Guy Markenmore out of your house, yourself, at a quarter to twelve. Did you notice which way he went when he left?” “Yes. As a matter of fact, I walked down the drive with him, to the entrance gate. He went along the main road, towards the village.” “And, after that, you never saw him again?” Mrs. Tretheroe shook her head, and for a moment those about her thought that she was about to burst into tears. But she suddenly controlled herself, and there was an almost defiant expression in her eyes as she answered the last question. “I never saw him again—until I saw him yesterday dead—murdered!” The Coroner drew back in his chair: clearly, he had got at what he particularly wanted to know: the glance that he gave the jurymen was obviously intended to remind them that they now knew that from half-past ten to a quarter to twelve o’clock of the night before his death Guy Markenmore had been with Mrs. Tretheroe, alone in her boudoir, unknown to any one. From the jury he turned to the men of law, sitting at the table beneath his raised desk. The barrister who had been instructed by the police authorities slowly rose to his feet, and turned himself to the witness. “I believe it is pretty well known, Mrs. Tretheroe,” he said in bland, half-apologetic tones, “that before your marriage to your late husband, you had a good many suitors.” “Yes!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe readily. “At least—I don’t know what you mean by well known. But I had—certainly.”