“That is not my ’abit, Miss, not ’ere nor in hany of the ’ouses where I ’ave seen service....” The butler broke off. The _h_’s were too much for him in his indignation. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything underhand,” the girl said quickly. “I mean, did you hear any more?” “No, Miss. I emptied the letter-box and took the letters to the servants’ hall.” “But,” said Mary in a puzzled way, “why do you say it was Mr. Greve if you didn’t hear his voice?” Bude spread out his hands in bewilderment. “Who else should it have been, Miss? Sir Horace and the doctor were in the lounge at tea. Jay and Robert were in the servants’ hall. It could have been nobody else....” The girl’s head sank slowly on her breast. She was silent. The butler shifted his position. “Was there anything more, Miss?” he asked after a little while. “There is nothing further, thank you, Bude,” replied Mary. “About Mr. Greve, I am sure there must be some mistake. He cannot have understood Mr. Humphries’s question. I’ll ask him about it when I see him. I don’t think I should say anything to the Inspector about it, at any rate, not until I’ve seen Mr. Greve. He’ll probably speak to you about it himself....” Bude made a motion as though he were going to say something. Then apparently he thought better of it, for he made a little formal bow and in his usual slow and dignified manner made his exit from the room. CHAPTER VIII. ROBIN GOES TO MARY The house telephone, standing on the long and gracefully designed desk with its elaborately lacquered top, whirred. Mary started from her reverie in her chair by the fire. By the clock on the mantelshelf she saw that it was a quarter past eight. She remembered that once her mother had knocked at her door and bidden her come down to dinner. She had refused the invitation, declining to unlock the door. She lifted the receiver. “That you, Mary?” Robin was speaking. “May I come up and see you? Or would you rather be left alone?” His firm, pleasant voice greatly comforted her. Only then she realized how greatly she craved sympathy. But the recollection of Bude’s story suddenly interposed itself like a barrier between them. “Yes, come up,” she said, “I want to speak to you!” Her voice was dispirited, “I don’t want to see him,” she told herself as she replaced the receiver, got up, and unlocked the door, “but I must _know_!” A gentle tap came at the door. Robin came in quickly and crossed to where she stood by the fire. “My dear!” he said and put out his two hands. Her hands were behind her back, the fingers nervously intertwining. She kept them there and made no sign that she had observed his gesture. He looked at her in surprise. “This has been terrible for you, Mary,” he said. “I wish to God I could make you realize how very, very much I feel for you in what you must be going through....”