“Then, although she came far, she didn’t walk far to get here. There’s a road back of the hill yonder, and a little copse in an open field where a motor-car has stood. I should say that she had driven herself there and come across the hill to you.” “Could we track the car?” asked Sedgwick eagerly. “No farther than the main road. What is the latest she ever left here, when she arrived afoot?” “Once she stayed till half past six. I begged her to stay and dine; but she drew into herself at the mere suggestion.” “Half past six. Allowing for a half past seven dinner, and time to dress for it, she would have perhaps twelve to fifteen miles to go in the car. That figures out with the saddle ride, too. Now, we have, as your visitor, a woman of rather inadequate description eked out by some excellent sketches—young, passably good-looking (don’t lose your temper, Sedgwick); passably good-looking, _at least_; with command of some wealth; athletic, a traveler, well informed. The name she gave is obviously not her own; not even, I judge, her maiden name.” Sedgwick turned very white. “Do you mean that she is a married woman?” he demanded. “How could you have failed to see it?” returned the other gently. “But what is there to prove it?” “Proof? None. Indication, plenty. Her visits, in the first place. A young girl of breeding and social experience would hardly have come to your studio. A married woman might, who respected herself with full confidence, and knew, with the same confidence, that you would respect her. And, my dear boy,” added Kent, with his quiet winning smile, “you are a man to inspire confidence. Otherwise, I myself might have suspected you of having a hand in the death of the woman on the beach.” “Never mind the woman on the beach. This other matter is more than life or death. Is that flimsy supposition all you have to go on?” “No. Her travel. Her wide acquaintance with men and events. Her obvious poise.” “All might be found in a very exceptional girl, such as she is. Why shouldn’t she tell me, if she were married?” “Oh, don’t expect me to dissect feminine psychology. There I’m quite beyond my depth. But you’ll note she doesn’t seem to have told you any slightest thing about herself. She’s let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, prey on _your_ damask cheek.” “Confound your misquotations! It’s true, though. But there might be many reasons.” “Doubtless. Only, my imagination doesn’t seem to run to them. And reverting to tangible fact, as clenching evidence, there are her gloves, which she always wore.” “What about her gloves?” “You never saw her left hand, did you?” “Oh, I see. You mean the wedding-ring. Well, I suppose,” continued Sedgwick, with a tinge of contempt in his voice, “she could have taken off her ring as easily as her gloves.”