“I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly; she seemed honestly confused. “When he spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken a step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn round at once.” “Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?” “Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then paled. “It hasn’t—truly, it hasn’t—anything to do with—all this!” she pleaded. “I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of that,” Lowry said, quite gently; Barrison had an idea that the old sleuth was truly sorry for the girl, but he never willingly left a trail. “What did he say?” “He said—he said: ‘If you knew the state of mind I’m in, you’d think I was showing great self-control toward you, this minute!’ That’s exactly what he said.” “What did he mean by that?” demanded the inspector, surprised and not taking the trouble, for once, to hide it. She was silent. “I asked you, Miss Merivale, if you have any idea what he meant by so peculiar a greeting? Can you think of anything in your acquaintance—in your relation with him—which might explain it?” “Yes!” she said, lifting her head and answering boldly. “I know perfectly well what he meant. He was excited or probably he would not have said it then, for he cared awfully about his profession, his work on the stage, and he would ordinarily have been thinking most of that, just then. But he meant—I am sure he meant that—the darkness gave him—opportunities.” “Opportunities?” “Opportunities—such as—such as—he had abused before.” There was the pause of a breath. “You mean,” said Inspector Lowry, “that he had forced his attentions upon you in the past?” “Yes.” “Against your will? I asked you—against your will?” “I had always refused his attentions,” she answered, with hesitation. The detectives noted the change of phrase as she answered, but the inspector made no comment. “Very well,” he said. “What did you answer then? I presume you turned round to face him?” “Yes, I did.” “What did you answer?” “I didn’t say anything—then.” “Ah—not then! What did you do, Miss Merivale? Did you hear me?” “Yes, I heard you. I did not do anything. I stood still. I was frightened.” “You stood still, facing him. Could you see him?” “Yes. He was just below me. I could see him, and I thought I heard him laugh in a—a dreadful way. He came up two of the steps, and I could see his face.” “It was not the dark scene yet?” “No; the lantern was not yet out. It was dark, but not pitch dark. His face frightened me. He had frightened me before.” “And did Mr. Mortimer speak to you again?” “Yes.” The answer came in a gasping breath, and Norman Crane seemed to echo it unconsciously. He was following every syllable that she spoke with a terrible attentiveness, and at that last “yes” he shuddered and drew his breath quickly. Lowry fixed him with that disconcerting, unexpected look of his.