And yet, she was the personification of deep emotion now. She could hardly speak for those convulsive sobs, and in her frightened eyes there was a deep and haunting terror. At what point, and through what circumstances, had tragedy touched this little selfish, self-centred butterfly, gifted with a certain amount of cunning and sharpness, but utterly brainless. "What do you know of Number 10 Cathcart Square, except what you gleaned from the newspapers?" demanded her brother sternly. "How can you be implicated in the murder of the unknown man whom Carrie mistook for me?" "But Carrie did not mistake him for you," wailed Iris. "She told me afterwards that the idea suggested itself in a flash, and when she read the newspaper she was not sure whether it was you who had crept in there, according to the evidence, and made away with yourself, through fear of the police." "Leave Carrie out of it for the moment," said Davis. "Whatever she did was well thought out. Of course, we both know her object was to identify me, if possible, and put Scotland Yard off the scent. What we want to know is, how did you come to be acquainted with the house? What do you mean by saying that, if further investigations are made, you might be dragged in?" "I was there on four occasions: on the last a few days before the murder, or suicide, whatever it was." Davis gasped, and Carrie lifted her hands in horror. What did this confession mean? It was impossible that this slim, weak girl had herself been the murderess, could have killed a big, powerful man of the same build as the supposed Davis, with those slim, weak hands. She saw the horror in their faces, and hastened to reassure them. "Oh no, not that, I swear to you. I am no more a murderess than you were a murderer, Reggie. But if the whole thing is raked up, and the man whom I believe it to be, accurately identified this time, things might look very black for me." Davis lifted her from her kneeling position, and placed her in an easy-chair. "Calm yourself, and tell us the whole story of why and how you came to be in Cathcart Square at all." Iris waited a few moments till the convulsive sobbing ceased. She spoke with little occasional gasps, but it was very evident it was a relief to unbosom herself. "It is a very long story," she began tremulously. "If the telling of it lasts till midnight, we must have it," said her brother in an inflexible voice. And compelled by his resolute manner, the girl, whom they had always regarded as a frivolous butterfly, embarked upon her strange and thrilling narrative. "It all arose out of the sale of those letters I spoke to you about. Carrie just now asked me the name of the man who wrote them. Well, I didn't get further than Roddie, which doesn't carry you very far. If it had not been for your threat of going to Scotland Yard, I should have stopped at that. A still tongue makes a wise head, you know."