"Your opinion of the late Lord Wilmersley is certainly not flattering, but even if we take for granted that such an arrangement would not have been impossible to his Lordship, I still refuse to believe that Valdriguez would have agreed to it; even assuming that his Lordship had wronged her and that she had nursed a murderous resentment against him all these years, I cannot see how she could have hoped to further her object by accepting the humiliating position of his wife's maid. It also seems to me incredible that a woman whose passions were so violent as to find expression in murder could have controlled them during a lifetime. But leaving aside these considerations, I have another reason to urge against your theory: Would his Lordship have trusted a woman who, he knew, had a grievance against him, as he certainly trusted Valdriguez? She had free access to his apartments. What was there to have prevented her from giving him an overdose of some drug during one of the many times when he was half-stupefied with opium? Nothing. The risk of detection would have been infinitesimal. No, my lord, why Valdriguez returned to Geralton is an enigma, I grant you, but your explanation does not satisfy me." "As long as you acknowledge that Valdriguez's presence here needs an explanation and are willing to work to find that explanation, I don't care whether you accept my theory or not; all I want to get at is the truth." "The truth, my lord," said the detective, as he rose to take his leave, "is often more praised than appreciated." CHAPTER XV FINGER PRINTS IN THE DUST As Cyril sat toying with his dinner, it was little by little borne in on him that the butler had something on his mind. How he got this impression he really did not know, for Douglas performed his duties as precisely, as unobtrusively as ever. Yet long before the last course had been reached, Cyril was morally certain that he had not been mistaken. He waited for the dessert to be placed on the table; then, having motioned the footmen to leave the room, he half turned to the butler, who was standing behind his chair. "Douglas." "Yes, my lord?" The man stepped forward, so as to face his master. "Is anything the matter?" asked Cyril, scrutinising the other attentively. The abrupt question seemed neither to surprise nor to discompose the butler; yet he hesitated before finally answering: "I--I don't quite know, my lord." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "You must know whether or not something has happened to upset you." Douglas fidgeted uneasily. "Well, my lord--it's this way, my lord--Susan, the upper 'ousemaid, says as how there has been somebody or--" here his voice sank to a whisper and he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder--"or something in the library last night!" Cyril put down the glass of wine he was carrying to his lips untasted. "She thinks she saw a ghost in the library?"