“The only way to bring this about is to give my work the substantial backing of a confession by the murderer. This I intend to obtain. “I cannot but think that, if I succeed, my work is finished and the agreement of even the most sceptical assured. “A. R. Gethryn.” Chapter XVIII. Enter Fairy Godmother 1 Dinner that night had been a melancholy business for the sisters. During the day the anodyne of action had brought them at times almost to cheerfulness; but from the moment when they had left the chambers of the great Marshall’s junior, their spirits had begun steadily to evaporate. Of the two, perhaps Lucia suffered the most. She was older. She had not the ingenuousness which enabled Dora to take at their face value the reassurance of barristers and the like. And she suffered, though she would barely admit it to herself, from a complication of anxieties. As the evening grew old so she grew angry and more angry—and always with Lucia Lemesurier. She felt something of contempt for herself. Surely a woman of thirty—Heavens, what age!—should have more feeling, more decency, when her little sister was in trouble so grave, than to offer only half her mind for the duty of consolation? Surely it was hardly—hardly seemly for this middle-aged woman to be—well, worrying, at such a time as this, over a petty quarrel with a man she barely knew? Yet, yet—well, he might have answered that note if he couldn’t come. Lucia took herself in hand. This must stop! She looked across the pretty room to where Dora lay coiled upon a sofa, a book held before her face. Lucia conceived suspicions of that book. She investigated, to find them well-founded. The book was upside down; the face behind it was disfigured by tear-laden, swollen eyes. Contrite, Lucia attempted consolation, and was in a measure successful. For an hour—perhaps two—Dora lay with her head on her sister’s breast. “Feeling better, dear?” Lucia said at last. Dora nodded. “I do. Really I do. Sorry ’m such a little idiot. Only it’s—it’s—I can’t help thinking, wondering—oh, what’s the good? Everything’s going to be all right. It’s got to be! It _must_ be!” “Of course it will.” Lucia stroked the red-gold hair. Dora sat upright, hands pressed to flushed cheeks. “Don’t know why I’m behaving in such a _damn’_ silly way!” she burst out. “You ought to shake me, darling, instead of being so sweet. Look at Archie. He’s wonderful! And he’d hate it if he knew I was slobbering here like a nasty schoolgirl. He says it’ll be all right! And so does Colonel Gethryn.” Lucia drew away; then silently reviled herself. Why, why in Heaven’s name, should mention of this man affect her? But Dora went on. Dora was no fool, and Dora was interested. A good thing for Dora; for a moment it lifted from her that black pall of brooding fear.