Mrs. Tretheroe’s voice, somewhat languid in tone, bade Mr. Blick enter, and he walked into what he immediately took to be the boudoir wherein its occupant had held her _tête-à-tête_ with Guy Markenmore after their meeting on the Monday night. Although it was still quite light outside, a rose-tinted lamp was burning in this luxurious nook, and by its subdued gleam Blick saw Mrs. Tretheroe, negligently but becomingly attired, lounging on a sofa; if she was pale, he thought, she was perhaps the more striking. And whether she had a nervous headache or not, she was smoking; the room was heavy with the peculiar scent of fine Turkish tobacco, and on a stand near its mistress’s sofa stood an open box of cigarettes. “Take a chair,” said Mrs. Tretheroe, glancing approvingly at Blick’s good looks and smart clothes. “This”—she pointed to an easy chair close to herself. “Have a cigarette, won’t you? I’m smoking to soothe my headache.—I got quite upset by all that business this morning. Such an awful lot of talk about nothing, don’t you think?” Blick out of sheer politeness, took a cigarette, though he hated Turkish tobacco like poison, and dropped into an easy chair. “Depends,” he answered tersely. “Sometimes you have to do an awful lot of talking over things of this sort—no end of questions, you know, before you can get at one little bit of truth. But I don’t want to bore you with a lot of questions, Mrs. Tretheroe.” “Oh, that’s all right!” replied Mrs. Tretheroe, complacently. “Rather interesting, after all; I suppose you do get a lot of interest in your work, don’t you? You ought to,” she added, giving her visitor a direct glance out of her half-shut eyes. “You’re so very young—a mere boy, I should think!” “Not quite such a chicken as I look!” retorted Blick, with a laugh. “I’ve had twelve years of it. But now—business! I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you one or two personal questions, Mrs. Tretheroe? Well, first—I see that on the third finger of your right hand, you wear a somewhat curious ring.” “This!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe. “You may look at it.” She stretched out her hand and laid it, a very slim and shapely member, in Blick’s palm. “Odd, isn’t it?” she added, as, after a moment, during which she turned her hand over, she withdrew it. “Unusual!” “It’s a very uncommon sort of thing, I should think,” replied Blick. “Now, do you know if the late Mr. Guy Markenmore had a ring like that?” “Of course he had!” she answered. “It was he who bought both rings—years ago. He and I were once together in Portsmouth, and in one of those queer old curiosity shops that you find in those sort of places, we saw these two rings. He bought them, for a pound or two, and we agreed to wear them for ever. Poor Guy!” “Was he wearing that ring when you saw him the other night?” asked Blick. “He was! He told me he’d never ceased to wear it—and I assured him that I’d always worn mine.” “He had it on his finger when he left you?” “Certainly he had!”