"I will tell you," said Sir Rupert, who had hitherto kept silent. "This, gentleman is Mr. Norwood, a solicitor--this Mr. Dowker of Scotland Yard--and I am Sir Rupert Balscombe." "You--you Sir Rupert Balscombe," she said quickly. "Your sister's husband." "How do you know Lady Balscombe was my sister?" "I found it out," interposed Dowker, "from your father, Captain Dicksfall." "My father," she murmured, turning pale, "you have seen him? "Yes." "Well," she said coldly, "now you have found out my relationship with Lady Balscombe, what do you want to see me about?" "Her murder," said Dowker in a deep voice. She sprang forward with a sudden cry. "Her murder--her--what do you mean?" "I mean that the victim of the Jermyn Street murder, whom we thought to be you, turns out to be Lady Balscombe." "My wife!" said Sir Rupert with a groan, burying his face in his hands. "God!--it's too horrible," cried Lena, and sank down into a chair. "Amelia dead--murdered--by whom?" "That's what we want to find out," said Norwood coldly. "What enemies had she?" muttered Miss Sarschine half to herself--"none that would desire her death--I cannot understand. I cannot,"--then suddenly struck by a thought she asked, "Why did you think the dead woman was me?" "Because she was dressed in your clothes." "Yes! yes!" she said feverishly. "I can understand now--I can understand." "Where did you see her last?" asked Norwood. "At her own house in Park Lane." "Did you leave her there?" "No! she left me." "Oh!" cried Dowker, a light breaking in on him, "now I understand--you changed clothes there, and she left the house first." "She did--to go to Calliston's rooms." "I thought so," said Norwood with a cry of triumph, "it was Lady Balscombe Desmond saw." "Desmond! Desmond!" she echoed. "What has he to do with this?" "Simply this--he is now in prison on a charge of murdering Lena Sarschine." "I see you mistook my sister for me--but murder--I can't understand--I can't understand," and she pressed her hand across her forehead. Sir Rupert looked up. "Listen to me," he said sternly, "a man's life hangs on your evidence, so tell us all that happened between you and my wife on that night." There was a _carafe_ of water on the table, and filling a glass from it Lena drank it up quickly, and then turned with ashen face to the three men, who sat cold and silent before her. "I will tell you all," she said in a shaky voice, "and you can form your own conclusions." The three settled themselves to listen, and she began to speak, in a trembling voice, which gradually became steadier, the following story: