He held out his hand to take his leave with a smile. He was a charming-looking boy with a remarkably serene expression which went well with close-cropped golden hair. Mary Trevert did not take his hand for an instant. Looking down at the point of her small black suede shoe she said shyly: “Mr. Wright, you are a friend of Mr. Greve, aren’t you?” “Rather!” was the enthusiastic answer. “Do you see him often?” The boy’s eyes narrowed suddenly. Was this a cross-examination? “Oh, yes,” he replied, “every now and then!” Mary Trevert raised her eyes to his. “Will you do something for me?” she said. “Tell Mr. Greve not to trust Manderton. He will know whom I mean. Tell him to be on his guard against that man. Say he means mischief. Tell him, above all things, to be careful. Make him go away ... go abroad until this thing has blown over ...” She spoke with intense earnestness, her dark eyes fixed on Bruce Wright’s face. “But promise me you won’t say this comes from me! Do you understand? There are reasons, very strong reasons, for this. Will you promise?” “Of course!” She took Bruce’s outstretched hand. “I promise,” he said. “You mustn’t go without tea,” said the girl. “Besides,”—she glanced at a little platinum watch on her wrist,—“there’s not another train until six. There is no need for you to start yet. I don’t like being left alone. Mother has one of her headaches, and Horace and Dr. Romain have gone to Stevenish. Come up to my sitting-room!” She led the way out of the library, locking the door behind them, and together they went up to the Chinese boudoir where tea was laid on a low table before a bright fire. In the dainty room with its bright colours they seemed far removed from the tragedy which had darkened Harkings. They had finished tea when a tap came at the door. Bude appeared. He cast a reproachful look at Bruce. “Jay would be glad to have a word with you, Miss,” he said. The girl excused herself and left the room. She was absent for about ten minutes. When she returned, she had a little furrow of perplexity between her brows. She walked over to the open fireplace and stood silent for an instant, her foot tapping the hearth-rug. “Mr. Wright,” she said presently, “I’m going to tell you something that Jay has just told me. I want your advice ...” The boy looked at her interrogatively. But he did not speak. “I think this is rather important,” the girl went on, “but I don’t quite understand in what way it is. Jay tells me that Mr. Parrish had on his pistol a sort of steel fitting attached to the end ... you know, the part you shoot out of. Mr. Parrish used to keep his automatic in a drawer in his dressing-room, and Jay has often seen it there with this attachment fitted on. Well, when Mr. Parrish was discovered in the library yesterday, this thing was no longer on the pistol. And Jay says it’s not to be found!...”