“No, I don’t,” said Barrison, speaking as briefly and frankly as she was speaking herself. “Well, will you tell me on what grounds they are—are watching me?” “You are sure they are?” he said, to gain time. “Sure! Of course, I am sure! Look at that man over there, reading the paper and occasionally glancing up at the sky to see if it is going to rain. Isn’t he watching this house?” Barrison smiled. “Probably he is,” he admitted. He had noticed the man himself as he came in, but he had not imagined that the girl herself knew of her situation. “Well,” she insisted, and a faint spot of feverish color came into either cheek, “what is it that they expect to find out? What is it? I know that I was there, on the scene, but—but—surely that man would not have let me go if he had thought I had—done it!” Barrison was convinced of her innocence; but he was also convinced that the wisest course would be to enlighten her as to the points wherein her position was open to question by the law. He had hesitated because his connection with the case, while unofficial, more or less tied his hands; but, after all, the inspector had given him leave to use his own judgment. He spoke straightforwardly. “What did you hide in your dress, just before the last act, the night before last, Miss Merivale?” She started upright on the couch, and looked at him with wide eyes of amazement. “How did you know that?” she asked blankly. “But you didn’t, did you, dear?” struck in Norman Crane, taking her hand in his. “What could you have put in your dress? It’s absurd, as I told Mr. Barrison!” She thought for a moment, and then said quietly: “I put into my dress something that I wanted to hide, chiefly from you, Norman. I knew that if you saw it, you would be angry.” Norman Crane looked as though she had struck him. “You did hide something, then?” he exclaimed. “I certainly did, and would again, under the same conditions. Only, I can’t see how any one knew of the fact. Who was it, Mr. Barrison?” “Your dresser, the woman Parry.” “Of course!” She nodded slowly. “She was always a meddlesome old thing! And I know that she was consumed with curiosity when I got the package and the note that night.” “The package and the note!” repeated Norman Crane. “Sybil, you are crazy! What are you talking about?” “I know what the note was,” put in Barrison, smiling at her reassuringly. “At least, I know part of it, and I was daring enough to make up the rest of it in Lowry’s office last night!” Sybil looked up at him with a flash of laughter in her eyes, though poor Crane was still dazed. “And what did you make of it?” she asked, in a tone that tried for raillery and only achieved a certain piteous bravado. “I made of it a sort of love letter, if you can call it so,” said Barrison gently, “which might have accompanied a present, something which could be considered in the light of a test—no, that is not the word, a proof of——”