"I guess you're not," snapped Miss Pewsey in rather an unlady-like manner, and she rose to shake out her skirts. "I know who killed dearest Sophia," she added, wagging a lean finger at her nephew. "I know who possessed the tie, and I shall hand that man--" "Who the dickens is he anyhow?" "Rupert Ainsleigh," replied Miss Pewsey with a grim smile, and left the room, while the buccaneer stared, and then smiled. It was pleasant to think that his rival--as he considered Rupert,--should be in such straits and should be pursued by the vindictive hatred of Miss Pewsey, who would leave no stone unturned to bring about the conviction of young Ainsleigh. "Well," said the buccaneer with his hands in his pockets. "I guess I'm not taking a hand in this biznai, and it ain't lively round these quarters. I'll git." And this Mr. Burgh did. When he passed out of the front door, he brushed against a plainly dressed rubicund man with sharp grey eyes who glanced at him inquisitively. However, the stranger said nothing but proceeded to ring the bell. The maid-servant who appeared took him into the drawing-room and carried a card to Miss Pewsey. The name thereon was, Orlando Rodgers, C.I.D. With this in her hand Miss Pewsey sailed into the drawing-room and looked at the comfortable creature who rose to greet her. "Mr. Orlando Rodgers, C.I.D.?" queried the little old lady. "Criminal Investigation Department," said the man in a cool voice, and with a sharp glance at the dry drab woman, "I'm in charge of the Wharf Murder Case, and have been sent down by the Treasury. As I have seen the Superintendent and can learn nothing likely to throw light on the subject, I have come to you--a relative?" "No," answered Miss Pewsey sitting down, in a rigid way. "I am the companion of the late Miss Wharf. Her only relative, down here at all events, is Miss Olivia Rayner." "Can I see her?" "I think not--at present. She is in her room weeping. Though why she should display such grief I can't understand," added Miss Pewsey spitefully. "It's natural in a relative, miss," said the detective looking hard at the withered little face. Miss Pewsey laughed in a shrill manner, and spoke between her teeth more than ever, emphasising every word as usual. "Oh, dear me, no," said she. "Miss Wharf and Olivia never got on well. The girl hated her aunt, though dearest Sophia--Miss Wharf, you know, sir--brought her up, when she hadn't a shilling or a friend in the world." "To whom have I the honour of speaking?" asked Rodgers wondering how much of this spiteful speech was true, and seeing plainly enough that the speaker was no friend to the niece. "I am Lavinia Pewsey," said that lady, "and for years I have been the cherished friend and dearest companion of Sophia. We were at school together, and were--as I may say--like two cherries on one stalk. Anything I can do to avenge her death will be done." "Punishment by the law, doesn't come under the head of vengeance!"