"In order to go into the smoking-room she must have crossed the hall; she must have seen Lavender. In that brief interval she must have realized that the man was persistent, and therefore a living danger to her husband. Remember, women have done strange things; they are a far greater puzzle to the student of human nature than the sterner, less complex sex has ever been. As I argued before--as the police should have argued all along--why did Lord Arthur deliberately accuse an innocent man of murder if not to shield the guilty one? "Remember, Lady Arthur may have been discovered; the man, George Higgins, may have caught sight of her before she had time to make good her retreat. His attention, as well us that of the constables, had to be diverted. Lord Arthur acted on the blind impulse of saving his wife at any cost." "She may have been met by Colonel McIntosh," argued Polly. "Perhaps she was," he said. "Who knows? The gallant colonel had to swear to his friend's innocence. He could do that in all conscience--after that his duty was accomplished. No innocent man was suffering for the guilty. The knife which had belonged to Lord Arthur would always save George Higgins. For a time it had pointed to the husband; fortunately never to the wife. Poor thing, she died probably of a broken heart, but women when they love, think only of one object on earth--the one who is beloved. "To me the whole thing was clear from the very first. When I read the account of the murder--the knife! stabbing!--bah! Don't I know enough of _English_ crime not to be certain at once that no English_man_, be he ruffian from the gutter or be he Duke's son, ever stabs his victim in the back. Italians, French, Spaniards do it, if you will, and women of most nations. An Englishman's instinct is to strike and not to stab. George Higgins or Lord Arthur Skelmerton would have knocked their victim down; the woman only would lie in wait till the enemy's back was turned. She knows her weakness, and she does not mean to miss. "Think it over. There is not one flaw in my argument, but the police never thought the matter out--perhaps in this case it was as well." He had gone and left Miss Polly Burton still staring at the photograph of a pretty, gentle-looking woman, with a decided, wilful curve round the mouth, and a strange, unaccountable look in the large pathetic eyes; and the little journalist felt quite thankful that in this case the murder of Charles Lavender the bookmaker--cowardly, wicked as it was--had remained a mystery to the police and the public. CHAPTER X THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY It was all very well for Mr. Richard Frobisher (of the _London Mail_) to cut up rough about it. Polly did not altogether blame him. She liked him all the better for that frank outburst of manlike ill-temper which, after all said and done, was only a very flattering form of masculine jealousy.