"I'll believe nothing if you will not tell me the truth," said Brendon, a little cruelly. "Come, Lola, admit that you paid Bawdsey to watch me." "I did not pay--no, not one sou. He did it for love." "Oh, indeed! So Bawdsey is in love with you?" Lola threw back her head defiantly. "Yes, he is, and I care not one, two, three little trifles for him. Chup! He is old--he is red--he is one big fool, that I can twist and twist----" "And you apparently have done so. Well, then, Lola, did you get him from a private inquiry office?" "No, I did not so. He loved me, and sent me flowers--oh, many, many flowers--those roses." She pointed to the silver dish. "So you can't tell the truth even in that," said George, deliberately. "What of the friend in San Remo?" "It is his friend. He had flowers from his friend. He told that." Brendon sat up with an eager look in his eyes. So Bawdsey knew some one in San Remo. Probably he had been there, and Bawdsey was acquainted with his name. Brendon began to think that there was some meaning in all these things and plied Lola with questions. She was sulky at first and would not answer. But Brendon knew how to manage her, and before the conclusion of the conversation he got the whole truth out of her. This was accomplished by using what the Americans call "bluff." "So Bawdsey knows San Remo, and he is fifty, or over fifty, years of age. H'm! He knows all the history of the place, I suppose." "I know not--nothing do I know." "Ah, that's a pity! Bawdsey could tell you some nice tales." He fixed a keen glance on her. "About some yellow holly, for instance." Lola winced, for the shot had gone home. But she still held to her declaration of ignorance. "I know nothings--absolutely." "But apparently this man knows a great deal. He is in love with you, and must have told you much. Did he inform you of a certain murder which took place at San Remo?" "Ah, bah! Why should he? I knew of all already." "You! How did you know?" "My father and my mothers, they lived in San Remo when--oh, they did tell me all of that Englishman." "Did they know who murdered him?" asked George, marveling at this unexpected discovery. "No. No one know anythings." "Was there no suspicion?" "Not one suspicions. I know nothings," she repeated doggedly. "It strikes me that you do. How did you and Bawdsey come to be talking of this matter?" "We did not talk." Lola looked down at her foot as she told the lie and moved it restlessly. George rose and took up his hat. Throwing his coat over his arm, he moved toward the door. "Good-night, mademoiselle." She sprang to her feet and flew after him. "No! no!" she cried in lively alarm. "You must not go, my dearest dear." "What is the use of my stopping when you will not show your gratitude toward me by telling the truth?" George hated to make such a speech as this, but it was the only way in which he could move her.