“Advantage?” she repeated thoughtfully. “You say Fate has given you an advantage--over me?” There was an infinity of suggestion, of latent disdain, in the question. “Don’t let us put it that way, Countess,” he protested. “The word was yours, not mine,” she returned. “True. But the application was yours. Let us look the situation squarely in the face,” he proceeded, anxious now to come to the point, lest the interview should be interrupted before he had declared himself. “Don’t you think that, as you and I are, presumably, the only people in the world who know your secret, we--we might share more than that?” He paused for her answer, but none came. Her attitude suggested that she was waiting for him to go on to the end, if it were not already reached. “Countess!” Thus called upon, she looked up. “With regard to your proposal,” she said, in quite a matter-of-fact tone, “it has the disadvantage of being based upon false premises.” “How?” “You talk of my secret--dangerous secret, I think you called it. I have no secret, dangerous or harmless, that can be shared by you--or anything else.” He took a step nearer and lowered his tone as he replied, “This is absurd, Countess. You will not put me off so. The little weapon with which Martindale was killed belonged to you.” “Indeed?” She gave a laugh. “I do not admit that for an instant; but, supposing it did, what then?” He had scarcely expected this unwavering defence, this absence of any sign of fear in her. He was bound now to fight without compunction. “It would, naturally, coupled with other circumstances, raise a very ugly suspicion against you.” “What other circumstances?” “Won’t you render it unnecessary for me to mention them?” “How?” “By letting me be no longer out of favour with you,” he pleaded. “I prefer to hear the other circumstances.” She was hatefully cold and contemptuous, he told himself; wishing almost that he had not come on this errand which promised him as little satisfaction as honour. “You were in that little room with Martindale,” he said, with an effort to save the situation. “You were seen to come out of it not long before his death was discovered.” “Seen? By whom?” “By me, for one.” “Ah!” There was infinite significance in the exclamation. “He was known to be an admirer of yours.” “Do I kill my admirers?” She rose. “You are giving me a terrible, a really mediæval character, Mr. Playford. I wonder you trusted yourself here alone. But perhaps you left word with the police before you ventured to knock at the door. Is there anything more you have to say to me? It is getting late.” She had beaten him at every point, turned every lunge he had thought to make with deadly effect. The sting of her sarcasm made him furious; as furious as a man of his self-contained temperament could ever show himself to be.