While she gave him a word of sympathy, Miss Donovan was busily thinking. She remembered Willis's remark in the apartments, "Are you sure of the dead man's identity? His face is badly mutilated, you know"; and her alert mind sensed a possibility of a newspaper story back of young Cavendish's unwarranted and strange act. How far could she question the man before her? That she had established herself in his good grace she was sure, and to be direct with him she decided would be the best course to adopt. "Mr. Valois," she said kindly, "would you mind if I asked you a question or two more?" "No," the man returned. "All right. First, what sort of a man was your master?" Valois answered almost with reverence: "A nice, quiet gentleman. A man that liked outdoors and outdoor sports. He almost never drank, and then only with quiet men like himself that he met at various clubs. Best of all, he liked to spend his evenings at home reading." "Not much like his cousin John," she ventured with narrowing eyes. "No, ma'am, God be praised! There's a young fool for you, miss, crazy for the women and his drinking. Brought up to spend money, but not to earn any." "I understand that he was dependent upon Frederick Cavendish." "He was, miss," Valois said disgustedly, "for every cent. He could never get enough of it, either, although Mr. Frederick gave him a liberal allowance." "Did they ever quarrel?" "I never heard them. But I do know there was no love lost between them, and I know that young John was always broke." "Girls cost lots on Broadway," Miss Donovan suggested, "and they keep men up late, too." Valois laughed lightly. "John only came home to sleep occasionally," he said; "and as for the women--one of them called on him the day after Mr. Frederick was killed. I was in the hall, and saw her go straight to his door--like she had been there before. A swell dresser, miss, if I ever saw one. One of those tall blondes with a reddish tinge in her hair. He likes that kind." Miss Donovan started imperceptibly. This was interesting; a woman in John Cavendish's apartment the day after his cousin's murder! But who was she? There were a million carrot-blondes in Manhattan. Still, the woman must have had some distinguishing mark; her hat, perhaps, or her jewels. "Did the woman wear any diamonds?" she asked. "No diamonds," Valois returned; "a ruby, though. A ruby set in a big platinum ring. I saw her hand upon the knob." Miss Donovan's blood raced fast. She knew that woman. It was Celeste La Rue! She remembered her because of a press-agent story that had once been written about the ring, and from what Miss Donovan knew of Miss La Rue, she did not ordinarily seek men; therefore there must have been a grave reason for her presence in John Cavendish's apartments immediately after she learned of Frederick's death.