This observation taken, he rose again and proceeded to note on his plan that on either side of the bed was a small table with a cover. Upon that furthest from the door was a graceful electric-lamp standard of copper connected by a free wire with the wall. Trent looked at it thoughtfully, then at the switches connected with the other lights in the room. They were, as usual, on the wall just within the door, and some way out of his reach as he sat on the bed. He rose, and satisfied himself that the lights were all in order. Then he turned on his heel, walked quickly into Manderson’s room, and rang the bell. “I want your help again, Martin,” he said, as the butler presented himself, upright and impassive, in the doorway. “I want you to prevail upon Mrs. Manderson’s maid to grant me an interview.” “Certainly, sir,” said Martin. “What sort of a woman is she? Has she her wits about her?” “She’s French, sir,” replied Martin succinctly; adding after a pause: “She has not been with us long, sir, but I have formed the impression that the young woman knows as much of the world as is good for her—since you ask me.” “You think butter might possibly melt in her mouth, do you?” said Trent. “Well, I am not afraid. I want to put some questions to her.” “I will send her up immediately, sir.” The butler withdrew, and Trent wandered round the little room with his hands at his back. Sooner than he had expected, a small neat figure in black appeared quietly before him. The lady’s maid, with her large brown eyes, had taken favourable notice of Trent from a window when he had crossed the lawn, and had been hoping desperately that the resolver of mysteries (whose reputation was as great below-stairs as elsewhere) would send for her. For one thing, she felt the need to make a scene; her nerves were overwrought. But her scenes were at a discount with the other domestics, and as for Mr. Murch, he had chilled her into self-control with his official manner. Trent, her glimpse of him had told her, had not the air of a policeman, and at a distance he had appeared _sympathique_. As she entered the room, however, instinct decided for her that any approach to coquetry would be a mistake, if she sought to make a good impression at the beginning. It was with an air of amiable candour, then, that she said, “Monsieur desire to speak with me.” She added helpfully, “I am called Célestine.” “Naturally,” said Trent with businesslike calm. “Now what I want you to tell me, Célestine, is this. When you took tea to your mistress yesterday morning at seven o’clock, was the door between the two bedrooms—this door here—open?”