“Well, Mr. Grant, what have we to conceal? I was in your garden at a rather late hour, I admit, but one cannot watch the stars by day, and a big telescope with its tripod is not easily carried about. Of course, father will be vexed, because, as it happens, I did not tell him I was coming out. But that cannot be helped. As it happens, I can fix the time you opened your window almost to a minute, because the church clock had chimed the quarter just before you appeared.” Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning. “I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your portrait, appearing in the newspapers,” he protested. “Miss Melhuish was a celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about her death. Look at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was she doing here? Why was she found in the river bordering the grounds of my house? Don’t you see? I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not I would admit any previous knowledge of her. I suppose I acted rightly?” “Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the truth!” He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid depths an element of strength and fortitude. “By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I was when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in friendship with you,” he said gratefully. “But I am wool-gathering all the time this morning, it would seem. Won’t you come into the house? If we have to discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it.” “No,” she said, with the promptitude of one who had anticipated the invitation. “I must hurry home. There are accounts to be made up. And Robinson and others will be telegraphing to Knoleworth and London. I must attend to all that, because dad gets flustered if several messages are handed in at the same time.” “Come and have tea, then, about four o’clock. The ravens will have fled by then.” “The ravens?” “The police, you dear child, and the reporters, and the photographers—the flock of weird fowl which gathers from all points of the compass when the press gets hold of what is called ‘a first-rate story,’ By midday I shall be in the thick of it. But, thank goodness, they will know nothing to draw them your way until the inquest takes place, and not even then if _I_ can manage it.”