"Where is he?" she asked; "is he outside? If he is----" she released Arnold and pulled out the pistol. "What do you mean?" asked Calvert, drawing back. "I guess I know," said Tracey, recalling the previous interview; "this locket belongs to Rufus." "Yes it does," admitted Mrs. Baldwin, casting apprehensive glances at the door and window, and still grasping the pistol; "where is he?" "Not here," said Tracey, and strove to take the pistol away. But Mrs. Baldwin resisted. "He will come," she said, "and I must be ready," and with that she replaced the pistol under the pillow. "What does she mean?" asked Calvert in a whisper. "Never mind," returned the American much discomposed, "ask her about the locket. She's queer, that's all." "The locket--the locket," murmured Mrs. Baldwin, beginning to weep; "I gave it to Rufus when I thought he wasn't a brute. My portrait is in it. I was a young girl----" "Will you look at it?" said Calvert, passing the locket. Mrs. Baldwin shrank back as though she had been asked to handle a snake. "No, I dare not. He has worn it. Did he give it to you; or," she asked vindictively, "was it taken from his dead body?" "It was taken from a dead hand." "From the hand of Rufus. Is he dead? Am I free? Oh, great heavens, am I free?" and Mrs. Baldwin clapped her hands hysterically. "No. It was taken from the hands of the woman who was killed at Ajax Villa. Evidently the man who wore it----" "Rufus," whispered Mrs. Baldwin---- "Had a struggle with his victim. She might have seen the blow coming, and putting out her hand to ward it off, must have clutched the locket as it hung to the watch-chain." "Rufus wore it on his watch-chain," said Mrs. Baldwin; "it is his locket. I gave it to him. He is a burglar. Now he is a murderer. He will come and kill me. Where's the pistol?" and she fumbled under the sofa-pillow, grey with fear. "We don't know that he's a murderer yet," said Tracey soothingly; "you go slow, ma'am." "I tell you if that locket was found in the dead woman's hand, Rufus killed her," said Mrs. Baldwin, crushing her hands together. "What is Rufus like in looks?" asked Tracey. "Fat and red-faced, with grey hair. Always smiling--always smiling--a kind-looking man--with a black heart. A criminal--a brute, a----" "Tracey," interrupted Arnold, rising, "she is describing Jasher." "That's so," said the American, without surprise; "ever since Bocaros confessed that Jasher was his friend I have suspected. Well, now we know at last who killed Mrs. Brand." "Another woman--another woman," moaned Mrs. Baldwin, "another victim." "It will be his last," said Tracey grimly; "thank God he's not Gerty's poppa. I'm sorry for the children, though." Mrs. Baldwin rose. "They must never know--never!" "If Jasher, or Rufus as you call him, is caught he'll speak out, and the whole business will come to light," said Tracey.