"Oh, of course, you are right, William," she answered, "and I hardly know what I'm saying, the pain of it all is so great. But then, there _is_ nothing to say. I can't understand, I can hardly realize what has happened." "For my part," Sir William answered, "I have left no stone unturned to discover the truth. I have been in communication with every force or agency which might be able to explain the thing. And no one has given me the slightest hint, except perhaps----" She leapt up from her chair, her pale face changed. "Yes?" she cried, "What is it? What is that?" Her breath came thick and fast. Sir William remained sitting in his chair and his head was bowed. "Sit down, Marjorie," he answered; "I didn't mean to say that." "But you said it," she replied. "Ah! my ears are very keen, and there was something in your voice which had meaning. William, what is it? What is it?" "Nothing," he answered in a deep, decisive voice. But the voice brought no conviction to her ears. She had detected, or thought she had detected, the note of an inner knowledge when he had first spoken. She crossed the room with rapid strides and laid her white hand upon his shoulder. "You've _got_ to tell me," she said imperiously. And her touch thrilled him through and through with an exquisite agony and an exquisite joy. "It's nothing," he repeated. Now there was less conviction than ever in his voice. She laughed hysterically. "William," she said, "I know you so well, you can't hide anything from me. There's something you can tell me. Whatever it may be, good or bad, you've just _got_ to tell me." At that he looked up at her, and his face, she saw, was drawn and frightened. "Marjorie," he said, "don't let any words of mine persuade you into any belief. Since you ask me I must say what I have got to say. But mind you, I am in no way convinced myself that what I am going to tell you is more than mere idle supposition." "Tell me," she whispered, and her voice hissed like escaping steam. "Well, it's just this," he said, "and it's awfully hard for me even to hint such a thing to you. But, you know, Rathbone had recently made rather a friend of poor Eustace Charliewood. I like Charliewood; you never did. A man's point of view and a girl's point of view are quite different about a man. But of course I can't pretend that Charliewood is exactly, well--er--what you might call--I don't know quite how to put it, Marjorie." "I know," she said with a shudder of disgust "I know. Go on." "Well, just before Rathbone disappeared those two seemed to have been about together a good deal, and of course Charliewood is a man who has some rather strange acquaintances, especially in the theatrical world. That is to say, in the sub-theatrical world. Marjorie, I hardly know how to put it to you, and I think I had better stop." "Go on!" she cried once more.