"What do I think? Why, the lady is lying. She knows who did it, but fears to tell us the truth. There was something hidden under the floor which those people intended to get, and got it. Mark me! She dare not speak, otherwise she'll ruin her own reputation. When we fathom the mystery of to-night it will be found to be a very interesting one, depend upon it." "Then you really suspect her?" I remarked. "Yes, I suspect her. She has some secret from her husband--and she fears that through this robbery he may learn the truth." "You know Mr Parham, perhaps--I mean you know something about him?" "Well, yes," he answered, smiling curiously. "We happen to know Mr Parham--and if what I suspect is true, then the affair of to-night is not surprising. Wait and see. The real facts, when they come to light, will very probably amaze you." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. BY WHICH SYBIL EXPLAINS SOMETHING. Three weeks went by--dull, dreary weeks of constant anxiety. With the assistance of Eric--to whom I had, of course, explained the tragic incident in the home of John Parham--I was ever on the alert, compelled to go down to Neate Street at infrequent intervals in secret from Eric and pose for a few hours in the daytime as the husband of little Mrs Morton. Poor Tibbie led a dreary life in that drab mean street. Mrs Williams was kind and pleasant, pitying the young wife so constantly separated from her husband. But if my work took me away, well, she ought not to grumble, the good woman declared. There were lots of compositors out of work she had heard, now that those linotypes were so universally adopted. And so she cheered Tibbie up, and the latter sought distraction by doing fancy needlework. Each time I visited her I ran the risk of being followed by some person in the employ of Winsloe, who was, we knew, ever active in his efforts to discover her whereabouts. Her mother had raised a terrible hue-and-cry after a week had passed without news of her. Jack had unfortunately gone to Scotland Yard and given his sister's description, as Cynthia had begun to express a fear that she had met with foul play. As soon as I heard of this I persuaded Tibbie to write a letter to her mother, assuring her that she was quite well and happy, that she was with friends, and that she would return in the course of a few days. This letter I sent to a friend in Glasgow, and it was posted from there.