“Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained that. It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my perfectly harmless friendship with Mr. Pyke. As I told you, Mr. Pyke and I decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more on my own resources and frankly I was bored. I filled a little more of the time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.” “Who began this increased intimacy?” “Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a very different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased to call our ‘intimacy.’” The look of fright had left Mrs. Berlyn’s eyes and she was speaking now with more of her usual assurance. “You sprained your ankle one day?” “I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really much the worse.” “You fell?” “I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a few minutes I was better.” “Now, Mrs. Berlyn,” and French’s voice was very grave, “what you have to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms really was an accident.” For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly; then she flushed angrily. “Oh,” she cried with a gesture of disgust, “how dare you? This is insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.” “If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as you can,” French advised, drily. “In a case like this heroics will not help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer watching the incident?” “No,” she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear. “You knew there wasn’t?” “I didn’t know anything about it.” “But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?” “I am. At least I should be if you assured me one was there.” “Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has been identified?” Once again the colour ebbed away from her face. “What letter?” she cried, faintly. “I don’t know what letter you mean or what you are talking about. You have made me quite confused with your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.” French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and took his leave.