The woman did not know, and for the life of her she could not guess. Tchigorsky was out of the way--dead and buried. Ralph Ravenspur and Geoffrey were antagonists not worthy of a second thought. But somebody was moving and that somebody a skilled and vigorous foe. For once the arch-conspirator was baffled. The foe had the enormous knowledge of knowing his quarry, while the quarry had not the least notion where or how to look for the hunter. And the fish was fast to the line. Unless it got away at once the landing net would be applied; then there would be an end of all things. But she could not move; she could do nothing but lie there gasping in impotent rage. There was only one person in the world who could help her now, and that was Marion. And where was Marion? Only the man on the other side of the chess board knew that. She wished she knew; oh! she wished she knew a score of things. Did the people of the castle suspect her? Hardly that, or Mrs. Gordon had not been so friendly. What had become of the coat and glass mask she was wearing at the time things went wrong in Geoffrey Ravenspur's room? Had her subordinates heard her cry? Had they fled, or had they been taken? If they had fled, had they removed the instruments with them? Mrs. May would have given five years of her life for enlightenment on these vital questions. Even she could not read the past and solve the unseen. Tears of impotent rage and fury rose to her eyes. While she was lying there wasting the diamond minutes the foe was at work. At any time that foe might come down with the most overwhelming proofs and crush her. Marion had been spirited away. Why? So that the key of the safe might be stolen and used to advantage. Once more the woman tried to raise herself from the bed. It was useless. She slipped the bed-clothes into her mouth to stifle the cries that rose to her lips. She was huddled under them when the door opened and Vera stepped in. "Did you call out?" she asked. "I was passing your door and fancied I heard a cry. Are you still suffering from a headache?" Mrs. May's first impulse was to order the girl away. Then an idea came to her. "The headache is gone," she said sweetly. "It was just a twinge of neuralgia. I wonder if you would do me a favor." "Certainly." "Then I wish you would get me some paper and envelopes. I have a note to write. There is a child in the village I am fond of. She comes and sits in the tangle at the bottom of the Jessops' garden and talks to me. I am afraid she thinks more of my chocolates than me, but that is a detail." "You want to write the child a note. How sweet of you!" "Oh, no," Mrs. May said. She was going to embark on a dangerous effort and was not quite certain as yet. But desperate diseases require desperate remedies. "It is nothing. And I don't want anybody to know." "I am sure you can trust to me." "Of course I can, my dear child. And I will. Please get me the materials."