"I don't know why I should admit anything to you," she went on, in a contemptuous voice, "but I will admit this much. There was a time when I was passionately in love with him. At that time, if he had lifted up his little finger I would have followed him to the end of the world. He never asked me--he had water in his veins, not blood. That was in the long ago. To-day he is nothing to me--barely a memory. Go back to London, my good man. You will not find Reginald Monkton here." Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarrassment. "Who then is Mr Williams?" he asked doggedly. "Oh, you know that, do you?--you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an assumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you. It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength." Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose. She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face. "You don't believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you." She left the room, returning after a moment's absence. "Follow me and see for yourself," she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking. "Look here," she pointed to the bed. "He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago." Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved. The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck. "You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions." She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand. Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life--he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him. "I humbly apologise," he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE MYSTERY OF THE MAID-SERVANT. When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial nature of the clue. Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates, except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no concern of his, so long as the results were obtained.