If love at first sight had been born in the man’s heart, must it not have found response in the girl’s? Or, even if not, could she have killed a man who felt thus toward her? Truly she was a mystery. For, the very fact that Waring had fallen in love with her, made possible, even plausible, her clandestine visit to him, and her possession of the money and jewel. Could it be that the pretty little thing was merely a sly adventuress? That she cajoled Waring into giving her the valuables, and then— No, Gordon Lockwood could not and would not believe any evil of the girl he loved. Even though she should admit her love for Waring, he would not lose faith in her. “Answer me,” Cray demanded. “Answer this direct question directly. Did you love Doctor Waring?” Almost like one hypnotized, Miss Mystery gave a helpless glance at her inquisitor and murmured a low, almost inaudible “yes.” “Then why did you kill him?” Cray stormed at her. “I—I didn’t.” “You were there, in his study the night he—he died.” “N—no, I wasn’t.” “You were! It’s been proved. You went over from this house, across the snow field, and you went in the study and you sat on the plush chair, near the desk. Didn’t you?” The great dark eyes seemed unable to tear themselves from Cray’s face, and again the half-breathed whisper was, “yes.” “I protest!” said Trask. “That girl shall not be tortured. Whether she’s guilty or not, she’s entitled to fairer treatment. You can’t make her say those things that may be used against her! Quit it, Cray. I forbid it.” “That’s right, Cray,” Lockwood said, quietly. “You’ve no right to bait Miss Austin—you make her admit things through sheer fright.” And it was true. Miss Mystery was trembling, and her face was white, save for the delicate flush on her cheeks and lips that she had placed there herself. Her great eyes, beneath their heavy dark brows flew from one face to another, and she did not fail to notice the fact that every man in the room, Cray perhaps excepted, was in sympathy with her, while every woman was against her. This must have comforted her, for she looked about, a faint smile dawning in her eyes. “Is that true?” she said, “may I be excused from this questioning until I can get counsel? I don’t know what to say—myself—” Her pretty distress and helplessness again appealed to the masculine sympathy, and, realizing this, she ignored the other sex. A puzzled expression crossed the face of Maurice Trask. “Who in the world can she be?” he thought. “That last flash of those eyes, as she drew her heavy eyebrows into a straight line surely reminded me of somebody. By heavens! the Truesdell brows!” Again he scanned the oval little face. He shook his head in uncertainty, but again declared to himself, “The Truesdell eyebrows!”