"Mrs Slade is still in her room, sir, but she's not alone; her maid arrived from London last night," answered the chambermaid at the _North-Eastern Hotel_ at Hull, when on the following morning, I made inquiry. I had been accompanied from King's Cross by Mabel and the police-agent, Hickman, and we stood together in the hotel corridor prior to entering the woman's room. Hickman, whom I had all along believed to be deeply implicated in the plot, if not the actual murderer, was, I found, a clever detective of English birth, who had for some years been an officer of the Prefecture of Police in Vienna, but who had latterly been attached to the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in Belgrave Square, and entrusted with the personal safety of the Emperor's daughter. The revelations I had made utterly amazed him. By the last post on the previous night Mabel had received the letter written from Hull which merely asked for an interview, and we had all three set forth, determined to secure the arrest of the writer. With that object we entered her sitting-room without a word of warning. She was sitting at the table writing, but in an instant sprang to her feet, with a cry of profound alarm. When her eyes wandered from Mabel to Hickman and myself, her cheeks blanched. She apparently guessed our purpose. "You have expressed a desire to meet me," Mabel said determinedly. "So I have come to you." "And--and these gentlemen?" Edna inquired, glancing at us, puzzled. "They are present to hear what you have to say to me." She was taken aback. "I--I have nothing to say to your Highness," the woman faltered. "I merely wished to know whether, when in London, I might call." "Then listen," exclaimed Mabel. "The truth is known, and it is useless for you to further conceal it. If you have nothing to say, Mr Hickman will at once call in the police, and I shall charge you with the murder of the Prince." "The murder of the Prince!" she gasped, white to the lips. "I--did not commit the crime. I can prove that I didn't!" Her hands were trembling, and she stood beside the table, steadying herself by it. There was a haunted look in those cold grey eyes. Our sudden descent upon her had taken her utterly by surprise. "Then let us hear your statement," my love said in a hard voice quite unusual to her. "Let it be the truth, or I shall charge you now, at once, with the capital offence. The Prince was murdered in my house, and with your knowledge. Do you deny that?" "No," she cried hoarsely, "I do not deny it." A long silence ensued. The woman Grainger--or Slade, as she was known there--hung her head. Hickman spoke authoritatively, demanding full explanation, but she maintained a dogged silence. A sudden fire flashed in her eyes--the fire of defiance and hatred. "Then, as you refuse to speak," said Mabel at length, "you will have no further opportunity until you stand in the criminal dock."