"You've walked a hundred miles; had you not better be quiet?" she replied. "I'd walk a hundred miles more to get you to tell me something." She looked at me an instant, with a little of the queerness that I had sought, but had not found, in Clare Vawdrey's eyes. "Do you mean what became of Lord Mellifont?" "Of Lord Mellifont?" With my new speculation I had lost that thread. "Where's your memory, foolish man? We talked of it last evening." "Ah, yes!" I cried, recalling; "we shall have lots to discuss." I drew her out to the terrace, and before we had gone three steps I said to her: "Who was with you here last night?" "Last night?" she repeated, as wide of the mark as I had been. "At ten o'clock--just after our company broke up. You came out here with a gentleman; you talked about the stars." She stared a moment; then she gave her laugh. "Are you jealous of dear Vawdrey?" "Then it was he?" "Certainly it was." "And how long did he stay?" "You have it badly. He stayed about a quarter of an hour--perhaps rather more. We walked some distance; he talked about his play. There you have it all; that is the only witchcraft I have used." "And what did Vawdrey do afterwards?" "I haven't the least idea. I left him and went to bed." "At what time did you go to bed?" "At what time did _you_? I happen to remember that I parted from Mr. Vawdrey at ten twenty-five," said Mrs. Adney. "I came back into the salon to pick up a book, and I noticed the clock." "In other words you and Vawdrey distinctly lingered here from about five minutes past ten till the hour you mention?" "I don't know how distinct we were, but we were very jolly. _Où voulez-vous en venir_?" Blanche Adney asked. "Simply to this, dear lady: that at the time your companion was occupied in the manner you describe, he was also engaged in literary composition in his own room." She stopped short at this, and her eyes had an expression in the darkness. She wanted to know if I challenged her veracity; and I replied that, on the contrary, I backed it up--it made the case so interesting. She returned that this would only be if she should back up mine; which, however, I had no difficulty in persuading her to do, after I had related to her circumstantially the incident of my quest of the manuscript--the manuscript which, at the time, for a reason I could now understand, appeared to have passed so completely out of her own head. "His talk made me forget it--I forgot I sent you for it. He made up for his fiasco in the salon: he declaimed me the scene," said my companion. She had dropped on a bench to listen to me and, as we sat there, had briefly cross-examined me. Then she broke out into fresh laughter. "Oh, the eccentricities of genius!" "They seem greater even than I supposed." "Oh, the mysteries of greatness!" "You ought to know all about them, but they take me by surprise." "Are you absolutely certain it was Mr. Vawdrey?" my companion asked.