“Oh, but you can discuss everything, Mr. Jeekes,” replied Mary Trevert composedly. “I am not a child, you know. I am perfectly well aware that there’s a woman somewhere in the life of every man, very often two or three. I haven’t got any illusions on the subject, I assure you. I never supposed for a moment that I was the first woman in Mr. Parrish’s life....” This candour seemed to administer a knock-out blow to the little secretary’s Victorian mind. He was speechless. He took off his _pince-nez_, blindly polished them with his pocket-handkerchief and replaced them upon his nose. His fingers trembled violently. “I have no wish to appear vulgarly curious,” the girl went on,—Mr. Jeekes made a quick gesture of dissent,—“but I am anxious to know whether Mr. Parrish was being blackmailed ... or anything like that....” “Oh, no, Miss Trevert, I do assure you,” the little man expostulated in hasty denial, “nothing like that, I am convinced. At least, that is to say ...” He rose to his feet, clutching the little _attaché_ case which he invariably carried with him as a kind of emblem of office. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Trevert,” he muttered, “I should really be going. I am due at Mr. Bardy’s office at five o’clock. He is coming up from the country specially to meet me. There is so much to discuss with regard to this terrible affair.” He glanced at his watch. “With the roads as greasy as they are,” he added, “it will take me all my time in the car to ...” He cast a panic-stricken glance around him. But Mary Trevert held him fast. “You didn’t finish what you were saying about Mr. Parrish, Mr. Jeekes,” she said impassively. The secretary made no sign. But he looked a trifle sullen. “I don’t think you realize, Mr. Jeekes,” she said, “that other people besides myself are keenly interested in the motives for Mr. Parrish’s suicide. The police profess to be willing to accept the testimony of the specialists as satisfactory medical evidence about his state of mind. But I distrust that man, Manderton. He is not satisfied, Mr. Jeekes. He won’t rest until he knows the truth.” The secretary cast her a frightened glance. “But Mr. Manderton told me himself, Miss Trevert,” he affirmed, “that the verdict would be, ‘Suicide while temporarily insane,’ on Sir Winterton Maire’s evidence alone ...” Mary Trevert tapped the ground impatiently with her foot. “Manderton will get at the truth, I tell you,” she said. “He’s that kind of man. Do you want me to find out from them? At the inquest, perhaps?” The secretary put his _attaché_ case down on the lounge again. “Of course, that would be most improper, Miss Trevert,” he said. “But your question embarrasses me. It embarrasses me very much ...” “What are you keeping back from me, Mr. Jeekes?” the girl demanded imperiously. The secretary mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Then, as though with an effort, he spoke. “There is a lady, a French lady, who draws an income from Mr. Parrish ...”