"No! Anthony didn't know Osip at the time--" "And he doesn't know him now." "He knows the looks of the man. The person with Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms was a tall, slim man with a criss-cross scar on his left cheek." "That's Osip, true enough," muttered Ferdy, "judging from the glimpse I caught of him in the High Street and in a bad light. But it is quite absurd to say that Uncle Henry was at the Shah's Rooms. You know that his disease prevented him from leaving his room." "We did not know what the disease was at the time," said Clarice, coolly. "There may be some mistake, as you say, but Anthony is too keen-eyed to make one. Did you ever see Uncle Henry in Town?" "No, I never did." "Did you ever see this Osip?" "Not in Town," said Ferdy, truthfully, "but I saw him in the High Street on that night when Jerce was searched. Look here, Clarry, let us have an understanding, if you please. Do you accuse me of--" "I accuse you of nothing," interrupted Clarice, rising, a trifle wearily. "Only the observation of Zara--" "I have explained that." "In a lame way. I am certain that you know nothing about the murder, Ferdy, as you were locked in and--" "How dare you? how dare you?" burst out the young man, furiously red and angry. "Even to hint at such things is an insult to me. I am not a saint; all the same, I am not a devil." "Don't excite yourself, Ferdy. We know that Osip is guilty, and that no blame attaches to you. But I fail to see why Zara should have made that observation to you." "Go and ask her," snapped Ferdy, rudely. "I don't speak to persons of that sort," said Clarice, icily. "She's a good, decent, pretty, hard-working girl." "What an array of adjectives. I never said that she was not. All I wish to know--and my desire to know is suggested by the chance observation I overheard--is, are you acquainted with Osip, or are you in any way influenced by Osip?" "I am not. How dare you suggest such a silly thing? As to Uncle Henry having been at the Shah's Rooms; that's sheer rubbish." Clarice walked thoughtfully to the window. "I dare say I am worrying myself unnecessarily," she observed. "There is no mystery about Uncle Henry's death, and Anthony may have made a mistake. But you do make me anxious, Ferdy, dear, with your wild ways. You are so unsophisticated, that I fear lest you should be led astray." "I'm quite able to look after myself," fumed the young man, again producing his cigarette case, that unfailing resource in embarrassment. His sister sighed. Somehow, in everything that Ferdy said, or did, there lurked a doubtful note. But on reflection, she could not but confess that it seemed ridiculous to think that Ferdy knew an assassin. Only for the overheard whisper, Clarice would never have started so futile a conversation, and now wished to end it by confessing her fault. "I beg your pardon, Ferdy," she said, quietly, "but my anxiety for you must be my excuse."