Evidently the woman had no fear of detection, for she never even cast one suspicious glance around her; nor did she appear to feel that there was any necessity for haste, for she lingered for some time near the writing-table, gazing at it, as if it had a fascination for her; but, finally, she turned away with a hopeless sigh and directed her attention to the bookcase. This she proceeded to examine in the most methodical manner. Book after book was taken down, shaken, and the binding carefully scrutinised. Having cleared a shelf, she drew a tape measure from her pocket and rapped and measured the back and sides of the case itself. What on earth could she be looking for, wondered Cyril. Not a will, surely? For his cousin's will, executed at the date of his marriage, had been found safely deposited with his solicitor. A later will, perhaps? One in which she hoped that her master had remembered her, as he had probably promised her that he would? Yes, that must be it. Well, there was no further need of concealment, he decided, so, parting the curtains, he stepped into the room. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His own voice startled him, it rang out so loud and harsh in the silence of the night. Valdriguez knelt on the floor with her back to him, and it seemed as if the sudden shock had paralysed her, for she made no effort to move, and her hand, arrested in the act of replacing a book, remained outstretched, as if it had been turned to stone. "It is I, your master. What are you doing here?" he repeated. He saw her shudder convulsively, then slowly she raised her head, and as her great, tragic eyes met his, Cyril was conscious of a revulsion of feeling toward her. Never had he seen anything so hopeless yet so undaunted as the look she gave him. It reminded him, curiously enough, of a look he had once seen in the eyes of a lioness, who, with a bullet through her heart, still fought to protect her young. Staggering a little as she rose, Valdriguez nevertheless managed to draw herself up to her full height. "I am here, my lord, to get what is mine--mine," she repeated almost fiercely. Cyril pulled himself together. It was absurd, he reasoned, to allow himself to be impressed by her strange personality. "A likely story!" he exclaimed; and the very fact that he was more than half-inclined to believe her, made him speak more roughly than he would otherwise have done. "Think what you like," she cried, shrugging her shoulders contemptuously. "Have me arrested--have me hung--what do I care? Death has no terrors for me." "So you confess that it was you who murdered his Lordship? Ah, I suspected it! Your sanctimonious airs didn't deceive me," exclaimed Cyril triumphantly. "No, I did not murder him," she replied calmly, almost indifferently.