Mrs Spencer rose. It seemed that there was a sense of relief in the fact that the interview was ending so amicably. "I would have preferred to remain as I am, but, on the whole, the life doesn't suit me, luxurious as it is. I am very fond of Guy really, he has been so good to me, but I have alienated him from his friends. And I have to sit here hour after hour by myself, with only my thoughts for company." "Let us say one week from now I will have that confession ready to sign." "And you will bring it here?" suggested Stella. "I think not. It will take some time to read through, and we might be interrupted," was Hugh's answer. "At your hotel, then, I suppose?" was the young woman's next suggestion. "The same objection applies." He scribbled down an address on a piece of paper. "Meet me there this day week at the hour I have appointed. Nobody will interrupt us, I will take care of that." And Mrs Spencer lay awake half the night, working out a problem that had suggested itself to her in a flash. The next day she lunched with George Dutton in the City. The detective might be watching her, but did it matter? Whatever happened at the end of the week, she had burned her boats. CHAPTER TWENTY. Two months had elapsed since the meeting between Major Murchison and Stella Spencer, recorded in the last chapter. A handsome, well-set-up man of about thirty was travelling up from Manchester to London. The reason of his journey was his desire to visit his sister, Caroline Masters, who occupied a small flat in the neighbourhood of King's Cross. Up to a short time ago this handsome, well-set-up man had been leading a very quiet life in the busy city of Manchester. He was an electrician by trade, and a very clever one. He was civil, well-spoken, intelligent beyond his station, but he had not foregathered much with his fellow-workers, had kept himself very much to himself. And yet, strange to say, this self-isolation had not provoked suspicion or resentment on the part of his daily associates. Reginald Davis, for such was his name, had been unjustly suspected of murder, and the police had been hot on his track. Then had come the suicide in Number 10 Cathcart Square, and his sister, Caroline Masters, had identified the dead body as that of her brother. Caroline Masters had always been a plucky, resourceful girl, and devoted to him. The dead man, no doubt, bore some resemblance to himself, and she had taken advantage of the opportunity to swear to a false identification, and remove from him the sleepless vigilance of the police. This much she had conveyed to him in a guarded letter.