"Oh, well, you're right enough there," interrupted Lydia, smiling. "All that talk of nerves and grief wasn't true. I didn't give my real reason, but I will now. When I heard that the old man had been stabbed by a stiletto I remembered that the one on the library wall had vanished some time before the Christmas Eve on which Mark was killed. So you may guess I was afraid." "For yourself?" "I guess not; it wasn't any of my funeral. I didn't take the stiletto, nor did I know who had; but I was afraid you might think Ferruci took it. The stiletto was Italian, and the Count is Italian, so it struck me you might put two and two together and suspect Ercole. I never thought you'd fix on me," concluded Lydia, with a scornful toss of her head. "As a matter of fact, I fixed on you both," said Lucian composedly. "And for what reason? Why should I and the Count murder poor Mark, if you please? He was a fool and a bore, but I wished him no harm. I was sorry as any one when I heard of his death, and I offered a good reward for the catching of the mean skunk that killed him. If I had done so myself I wouldn't have been such a fool as to sharpen the scent of the hounds on my own trail." "You were in town on Christmas Eve?" said Denzil, not choosing to explain the motives he believed the pair had for committing the crime. "I was. What of that?" "You were in Jersey Street, Pimlico, on that night." "I was never in Pimlico in my life!" declared Lydia wrathfully, "and, as I said before, I don't know where Jersey Street is." "Do you know a man called Wrent?" "I never heard of him!" "Yet you visited him in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve, between seven and eight o'clock." "Did I, really?" cried Mrs. Vrain, ironically, "and how can you prove I did?" "By that cloak," said Lucian, pointing to where it lay on a chair. "You wore that cloak and a velvet-spotted veil." "I haven't worn a veil of that kind for over a year," said Lydia decisively, "though I admit I used to wear veils of that sort. You can ask my maid if I have any velvet-spotted veils in my wardrobe just now. As to the cloak--I never wear rabbit skins." "You might as a disguise." "Sakes alive, man, what should I want with a disguise? I tell you the cloak isn't mine. You can soon prove that. Find out who made it, and go and ask in the shop if I bought it." "How can I find out who made it?" asked Denzil, who was beginning to feel that Lydia was one too many for him. "Here! I'll show you!" said Lydia, and picking up the cloak she turned over the tab at the neck, by which it was hung up. At the back of this there was a small piece of tape with printed black letters. "Baxter & Co., General Drapers, Bayswater," she read out, throwing down the cloak contemptuously. "I don't go to a London suburb for my frocks; I get them in Paris." "Then you are sure this cloak isn't yours?" asked Lucian, much perplexed.