The giant looked round bewildered and took our little hands into his vast grip, one by one. “I was wrong,” he said meekly as a sheep. “My suspicions was unfounded. Mr. Hooper, I apologise.” “You did quite right to look out for your own end o’ the line,” said Hooper. “I’d ha’ done the same with a gentleman I didn’t know, you see. If you don’t mind I’d like to hear a little more o’ your Mr. Vickery. It’s safe with me, you see.” “Why did Vickery run,” I began, but Pyecroft’s smile made me turn my question to “Who was she?” “She kep’ a little hotel at Hauraki—near Auckland,” said Pyecroft. “By Gawd!” roared Pritchard, slapping his hand on his leg. “Not Mrs. Bathurst!” Pyecroft nodded slowly, and the Sergeant called all the powers of darkness to witness his bewilderment. “So far as I could get at it Mrs. B. was the lady in question.” “But Click was married,” cried Pritchard. “An’ ’ad a fifteen year old daughter. ’E’s shown me her photograph. Settin’ that aside, so to say, ’ave you ever found these little things make much difference? Because I haven’t.” “Good Lord Alive an’ Watchin’!… Mrs. Bathurst….” Then with another roar: “You can say what you please, Pye, but you don’t make me believe it was any of ’er fault. She wasn’t _that!_” “If I was going to say what I please, I’d begin by callin’ you a silly ox an’ work up to the higher pressures at leisure. I’m trying to say solely what transpired. M’rover, for once you’re right. It wasn’t her fault.” “You couldn’t ’aven’t made me believe it if it ’ad been,” was the answer. Such faith in a Sergeant of Marines interested me greatly. “Never mind about that,” I cried. “Tell me what she was like.” “She was a widow,” said Pyecroft. “Left so very young and never re-spliced. She kep’ a little hotel for warrants and non-coms close to Auckland, an’ she always wore black silk, and ’er neck—”