Evidently Sophy had discovered the truth at last—a truth that was withering her youth and crushing her to the earth. His quick eye understood the signs of strain and fatigue; all life and light had faded from her face, and he realised that she was, as Fuchsia had described, “terribly changed.” For a moment neither of them spoke; she fidgeted with a turquoise ring—it was much too loose, or her fingers were much too thin, for it suddenly slipped, dropped into her lap and then rolled far away upon the floor with an air of impudent independence. Shafto, as he searched for and picked up this ring, felt something forcing and driving him to speak and, after a moment’s reflection, he made up his mind to dare all. “I believe I know your secret,” was his bold announcement, as he restored her property. “You!” she ejaculated. “That is impossible.” “At least, I can guess,” he said, dropping his voice. Then he got up and, standing before her with his hands in his pockets, looked down at her steadily and continued: “It has to do with a drug.” At the word drug she winced visibly, and her pale face changed. “The drug is cocaine,” he went on slowly, “and the victim is—a lady in this house.” Sophy’s white cheeks were now aflame; bright tears stood in her eyes; she was passing through a painful crisis. To assent would amount to a betrayal. Should she put him off with a _lie_? There seemed to be an interminable pause before she spoke. “Why do you say this to me?” she asked in a low voice. “FitzGerald has means of finding out curious facts, and sometimes he tumbles into a thing by accident; he is mad keen to scotch this cocaine business, and incidentally discovered that one of Ah Shee’s best customers was—_you know who_. She has been procuring the stuff for the last three years. I believe you have only recently found out the hideous fact, and this accounts for what anyone can see with half an eye—your look of care and anxiety. I am well aware that I have undertaken a dangerous mission in coming here to tell you this. Possibly you may never speak to me again; but I take the risk, because I do want so very, very badly to be of some use and to stand by you.” There was nothing for it but to accept the situation, and at last she said: “The only way in which you can help me is by keeping silent.” “How long have you known?” “About six weeks.” “So now I understand why we see you so seldom at tennis or the paper-chases.” “Yes; and now that you _do_ understand, perhaps you will help me and put people off when they ask tiresome questions.” She spoke with a catch in her voice. “I scarcely ever leave my aunt. I read and talk and play the piano, and do my best to keep her amused; I am very fond of Aunt Flora.” “You must be!” he exclaimed sharply.