When she arrived, Anthony saw that the time that had elapsed since their previous interview had only served to intensify the outward and visible signs of her profound grief. To-day she was showing him a face heavily lined with the marks of care and sorrow. “Good morning, Miss Kerr.” “Good morning, Mr. Bathurst.” “I told you that I might want to communicate with you again, didn’t I? Well, here I am. There wasn’t time to write to you—I’m returning to town this afternoon. But before I go there’s one more question I particularly wish to ask you.” He smiled in the best Bathurst manner. “What is that, sir?” inquired “Pinkie” listlessly. “She’s taking her trouble badly,” thought Anthony to himself. “She needs to pull herself together.” “Just this point, Miss Kerr. I want you to cast your mind back to the occasion when Lal Singh—the Indian—called upon Miss Delaney—the incident of which you told us the other day. The point I want to emphasise is this. Did he speak in English the whole time he was here?” “All that I heard him say was English,” answered “Pinkie.” “Yes,” she proceeded, stressing her remarks with nods of the head, “I remember now. What you have just said has brought it back to me. Miss Sheila spoke to him in Hindustani, but it was in the wrong dialect or something. He couldn’t get on with it. She said afterwards that he came from a different part of the country—belonged to a different tribe or something. That’s why they couldn’t make each other understand.” Anthony’s reply held a trace of sternness. “Good-bye, Miss Kerr,” he said. “You’ve been able to clear up something in my mind that’s been troubling me—no doubt we shall meet again.” The second of Mr. Bathurst’s morning calls to which he had made reference in his conversation with Alexis was of a somewhat extraordinary nature. The Editor of the “Westhampton and Chellingborough Independent” contemplated somewhat ungraciously the visiting-card that had been presented to him by a singularly dirty and ink-stained office-boy, but after a minute or two’s thought decided that his time was not too fully occupied to see the gentleman described thereon. “Tell Mr. Bathurst we can give him ten minutes, Fred,” he remarked editorially. “But not a minute more.” Mr. Bathurst stated his business. As usual the introduction of the name of the Crown Prince of Clorania had a magical effect and worked wonders towards the establishment of a perfectly amicable atmosphere. “I think I can manage that,” said the Editor. “Let me see now—the affair took place in the early part of last year—I think that was the time, wasn’t it?” “It was,” confirmed Mr. Bathurst, “February was the month—to be exact. I can’t give you any nearer than that.” “Ah—February! Now what is it—er—precisely that you want to do—to read all our reports and comments on the case, did you say?” He toyed with the paper-knife that lay on the desk in front of him.