“There’s a law against murder,” said the other shortly. “If I had touched that book without rubber gloves, I should have been as near dead as makes no difference. It did not kill Braime, because he is constitutionally a giant.” “I did not ask you to take down the book,” she said. “Neither did you warn me,” Michael smiled crookedly. “Empty, eh? Of course, it would be. You suspected Braime, and left a little notebook around carelessly in your bedroom, in which you made reference to the _Life of Washington_. Braime saw it and fell into the trap. He came to the library, and would have been a dead man if I hadn’t applied first aid.” There was a silence. “Is that all?” asked Lady Moron. “Not quite all. I want to know where is Miss Reddle?” “And I’m afraid I cannot tell you. The truth is, when she was released last night, or in the early hours of this morning, she refused to come either here or to her house in--wherever her house may be. She said she wanted to go into the country----” “And did Mrs. Pinder express a desire to go into the country?” he asked, his cold eyes fixed on hers. “Mrs. Pinder? I do not know Mrs. Pinder.” “Did Mrs. Pinder express a desire to go into the country?” he asked again. He raised a warning finger. “Madam, there is very considerable trouble coming to you, and to those who work with you.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “If it takes any other form than an early morning call by a melodramatic detective I shall bear it with equanimity,” she said, and stalked through the doorway into the hall, Michael following. As she stood aside for him to pass through the door, she saw the grotesque figure of Selwyn leaning over the side of the car--intently occupied--and her lips curled. “My son has found his intellectual level,” she said, and called him by name. To Michael’s surprise the young man merely turned his head and resumed his conversation with the girl. “Selwyn!” Even then he took his time. “Good-bye, young lady. Don’t forget”--in a stage whisper--“pork sausages, not beef. Beef gives me indigestion.” And, waving her an airy farewell, he went back to the woman whose face was a thundercloud of wrath. “It sounded almost as if you were making a date with that young man,” said Michael as they drove off. “He’s coming to supper,” said Lizzy. “Was Lois there?” “No, I didn’t expect she would be.” Even the prospect of a _tête-à-tête_ meal with a scion of the nobility was not sufficient to compensate for this news. “But where is she, Mr. Dorn?” “She’s somewhere. I don’t think she’ll come to any harm for a day or two.” She looked at him quietly. “You don’t think that.” “Yes, I do,” he protested. She did not take her eyes from him. “You look nearly dead,” she said. “You’re pretty fond of her, aren’t you?” He was startled by the question. “Fond of Lois?” The question seemed in the nature of a revelation. “Fond of her--why--I suppose I am.”