Mrs. Warrender was at home when the inspector called. At first she felt she could not see him, for the idea of coming into contact with the police was abhorrent to her. She wondered if Blair could have discovered the relationship which existed between herself and Cicero, and it was her anxiety to ascertain this which made her grant the inspector an interview. If her brother were playing her false, the more she knew about his plans the better would she be able to frustrate them. Mrs. Warrender was a capable woman, and had a genius for intrigue. She was quite decided that she could hold her own even against the trained intelligence of a police officer. And so it came about that the gentleman in question was shown into the drawing-room, a meretricious, gaudy apartment, which betrayed in furniture and decoration the tawdry taste of the doctor's widow. She came forward to receive him in an elaborate tea-gown of pink silk trimmed with lace, and, in spite of the early hour, she wore a quantity of jewels. Blair had an eye for beauty, and could not deny that this lady was a fine woman, though, perhaps, too much of the ponderous type. He wondered why she did not wear mourning. She could have cared but little for her husband, he thought, to appear in gay colors so soon after his untimely end. But, in truth, Mrs. Warrender had never professed to be an affectionate wife. She had married for a home, and made no secret of it. "Good-morning," she said, with a sharp glance at Blair's impassive face. "I understand that you belong to the police, and that you wish to see me--why, I cannot conceive." "If you will permit me to explain myself, I will soon give you my reasons," said the inspector, in his best manner. "May I sit down? Thank you. Now we can talk at our ease." "I suppose it is about the sad end of my poor husband," she said, in tones of grief, which her gay attire somewhat belied. "Have you found out the truth?" "No; but I hope to do so--with your assistance." She looked up suddenly. "If you think I killed the poor lamb, you are mistaken," she said. "I can account for all my actions on that night, policeman." This last was hurled at Blair with the object of keeping him well in mind of her condescension in receiving him. "I never had the slightest suspicion of you," he protested. "My errand has to do with quite a different matter. And might I suggest," he added, a trifle testily, "that I am usually addressed as Inspector Blair?" "Oh, of course, if you insist upon it!" she cried, with a shrug. "Inspector Blair--will that do?" "That will do very well, thank you." He paused, and stared hard at the expensive tea-gown and the aggressive jewelry until the widow became restive. "Are you rich?" he asked abruptly. "What has that got to do with you?" cried Mrs. Warrender furiously. "Remember you are talking to a lady!" "To a rich lady or to a poor one?" "Upon my soul, this is too much? Mind your business, Inspector Blair!"