“I am at home to Mr. Playford when he calls this afternoon,” she told the man, giving the order with a plain-spoken authority which disarmed all suspicion of an impropriety. She had not long to wait before the expected visitor was announced. Playford came in deferentially confident and inscrutable, and as Alexia rose to receive him her eyes met his boldly in a look of challenge. “Bring tea,” she said casually to the man as he left the room. She was not going to indue this unwelcome visit with any mysterious importance. “It was good of you, Countess, to grant my request,” Playford said, as he sat down, and let his eyes rest with covetous admiration on the beautiful woman before him. “I hope it has not been inconvenient; but the matter on which it was necessary to see you was urgent.” “Not at all,” she answered coolly. “I have had some people to luncheon, and they have only just gone. What did you want to tell me?” “I gave you a hint, Countess, in my note.” “Please explain it.” “You did not understand it?” The tone was incredulous; coupled with the sly look, almost offensively so. “Not in the least,” Alexia returned simply, so directly as to blunt the point of the insinuation. But Playford was not the man to show a repulse. “It is about this business at Vaux House,” he said, with quiet incisiveness. “Oh? What of that? How does it concern me?” If she was playing a part, her skill called forth his grudging admiration; grudging because he knew from her tone that, except under duress, she was not for him. “You know, Countess,” he replied, speaking now with forced directness; “you have seen that the little jewelled sword, a hair ornament, with which Reggie Martindale was killed, has been found?” “Yes,” she responded casually; “I saw that in the paper.” He told himself, as he watched her, that she had gone a shade paler; that was all; and he could not be quite certain of that. “Do you believe it?” she added, as he paused, so to speak, on the strike. “It is true enough,” he said, in a tone that took the question out of the region of the debatable. “Reggie Martindale was done to death that night; why--only one person, probably, on this earth knows; but that he did not die a natural death has all along been almost an open secret.” “Has it?” she observed simply, yet with the slightest touch of contradiction. “Yes; well, I have heard as much. Mr. Dormer Greetland was telling us a long story about it a day or two ago. Still, I don’t see how it concerns me.” She was better entrenched against his attack, he was forced to admit, than he had thought to find her; still, the defence should not serve. “I’m afraid it does concern you, Countess, very nearly,” he replied, in a tone dark with impending mischief. “Tell me how, Mr. Playford.” He gave a slight bow, as accepting the challenge. “I have seen this little weapon, the tiny sword; a dangerous ornament, Countess.” “Yes?” There seemed little more than a half-amused curiosity in her tone.