"I can believe anything of her," said she, dryly, when he had finished, "for I know how long she has sought to entrap Sir Edgar into an engagement and woo him from his allegiance to Lady Margaret this past year. But that Lady Brenton was _there_, at Cheyne Court, I will not--cannot believe. I am sure she never left the house----" She paused abruptly, and grew very pale, at the recollection of that swift step that had sounded on the polished floor of the corridor when all the house was still. In her innermost heart she knew that she had not been mistaken. And yet, and yet---- "Oh, but she is the soul of honour!" she said, looking up at Cleek with frightened eyes, "and she told me herself that she slept soundly all night. If she had gone out after I fell asleep----" "It could be proved and very easily," put in Cleek, gently. "You know how moist the night was. The lane was wet and muddy. Her clothes, her skirt, her shoes---- But I will not suggest that." "Nor would I do it," replied Ailsa. "Even if she did go out, and I would not admit it even now unless she said so, that does not mean that she had any ulterior motive. As for the scarf, well, it might be a piece from Lady Margaret's own for that matter----" Cleek stopped short. "Lady Margaret!" he rapped out in excitement. "Did she possess a gold scarf, then?" "Yes; one that was given her by her father on one of his few visits to the convent. She showed it to me during the crossing, and from what I can see, this certainly looks as if it had been torn from hers." Cleek's eyes were narrowed down to mere slits. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the pattering of an animal's feet behind them and he started as an old brown retriever flung himself on Ailsa, greeting her boisterously. "Jock, you dear, I am so glad; he didn't kill you after all. I am so glad!" She stopped and patted the dog affectionately, then answered the inquiry in Cleek's eyes. "He is so old," she said, softly, "and Sir Edgar was going to get rid of him. He had even bought prussic acid or something, I believe, but evidently poor old Jock is to be allowed to live a little longer." So absorbed was Ailsa in the animal, that she failed to note the gleam of anxiety in Cleek's eyes. "Prussic acid, eh?" he said to himself, musingly, "presumably to kill an old dog. Not so old, either, by his running powers." And Sir Edgar had certainly been in Cheyne Court for he himself had ascertained that by the footprints which Dollops had so conscientiously copied. Well, it was a puzzling case. If Lady Margaret herself, driven to desperation, had killed the woman--or man, as she might have discovered him to be--who kept her prisoner? Did Sir Edgar know, and was he shielding her; concealing her in London? Or was it, after all, Lady Brenton? Struck with a sudden idea, he turned to Ailsa. "One moment, dear," he said, quietly. "Do you know anybody who has a scarlet cloak, satin, I think?"