I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery. We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply. I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice. The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime. Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries. "If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I'll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be," he said. I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club. It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something. Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty, old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty or so, and they were taking tea. From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh! Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in her efforts to live upon the credulity of others. The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a party on the following day. "Sir Charles will be there, so do come," the girl urged. "I'm afraid I have to go to the Reids' with my brother," the widow replied. "He accepted their invitation a month ago." And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother, George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey--the husband Earnshaw, who sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes as a servant!