Rhoda found herself left alone, and as she went back to her room, sick at heart, with the whispers of the household buzzing in her ears, she remembered that Sir Robert had not addressed one word to her since making the discovery of the loss of his picture. Was it possible that he suspected her? What had Lady Sarah whispered to him? Rhoda, with her sickening, deadly, knowledge of the truth, knowledge almost as certain as if she had seen the faces and heard the voices of the thieves, felt that her brain reeled under the weight of the secret she had to bear. Suddenly she was startled, as she went slowly up the stairs, by feeling a small, thin hand tucked into her arm. “Nice business this, isn’t it?” She started. It was Minnie Mallory who spoke, and in her light eyes Rhoda saw that she too made a shrewd guess at the truth. “Hush!” said Rhoda. “Oh, yes, it is ‘Hush’ this time--till George comes home,” retorted Minnie as she nodded and left her to go to her own room. Rhoda went back to hers in a sort of dream. She scarcely slept that night, and the next day she was pale, haggard, and miserable. Nobody talked of anything but the robbery. Jack professed his intention of going to Scotland Yard and giving information to the police about the theft. “Such a thing as a valuable picture,” said he, “can easily be traced when the thieves offer it for sale.” Sir Robert seemed to acquiesce in this proposal, and soon after breakfast Jack Rotherfield’s motor-car came round to take him up to town. Rhoda was watching the packing of the luggage inside the car with curious eyes. Presently a gun-case was brought out of the house by a footman, who went indoors again when he had stowed it away. With flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes Rhoda walked deliberately down the two broad stone steps, and took the gun-case out of the motor-car. As she did so, she looked up, and her eyes met those of Jack Rotherfield, who was standing on the other side of the car. “What are you doing?” said he. “That’s my gun-case.” Rhoda, now as pale as a moment before she had been red, looked at him steadily. “I’m going to take it into the study,” said she. “I’m going to open it, in the presence of Sir Robert.” “The devil you are,” retorted the young man, and a look of diabolical rage shot out of his dark eyes. “Give it back to me, Miss Pembury. You are behaving like a mad woman.” But Rhoda had turned, and, with the gun-case held fast, had run back into the house. The next moment she, half-way to the study, found herself tapped sharply on the shoulder. Jack Rotherfield was behind her, stooping to whisper to her. “What are your terms?” asked he in her ear. “Take out what is inside this case, and leave it with me,” said she in a voice as low as his. “All right,” said he sullenly. The next moment, in the half-light of the passage, he had opened the gun-case, taken out something rolled up in brown paper, and thrust it angrily into her arms.