"This is my business," he retorted, keeping himself well in hand. "I merely asked you the question, because, if you are not rich, then I come to make you so." "What do you mean?" "Answer my question first: Are you rich?" And he took another good look at the dress and the jewels. "No," she said sullenly, "I am not. My husband left me fairly well off, but not with so much money as I expected." "Then you would not object to making some more?" Her eyes lighted up with the fire of greed. "I should! I should! I am dying to leave this dull village and take up a position in London; but I cannot do it without money." She paused, then clapped her hands. "I see," she cried; "Sophy Marlow is going to compensate me for the death of my husband. It would be easy enough with all the millions she has!" "I am sure it would," assented Blair coolly; "but I don't mean to supply you with money for nothing." "You! What have you to do with the matter?" "A good deal. Mr. Thorold and Miss Marlow will rely on my advice." "Oh, Miss Marlow!" jeered Mrs. Warrender, sitting up. "That is her name, is it, Inspector Blair? Are you sure it isn't Marie Lestrange?" He leaned forward and caught her wrist in a grip of steel. "So you know the truth, then?" he said. "Give me the confession." "What confession? What do you mean?" she cried, trying to release her hand. "The confession left by your husband, in which he tells the story of Achille Lestrange's murder." "I--I--I don't know----" "Yes, you do; yes, you do--no lies!" He shook her wrist. "You know that Marlow never murdered Captain Lestrange." "Let go my wrist!" cried Mrs. Warrender, and succeeded in wrenching herself free. "What do you mean by behaving like this? I know nothing about the matter--there!" Blair jumped up and made for the door. "Very good. Then you lose the money. I have got for you." "Come back! come back!" She followed him to the door and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Don't be in a hurry. Is there--is there money in it?" "If you have the confession, yes." "How much?" "We will talk of that when I know the truth. Have you a confession?" "Yes, I have." She thought she might with safety admit as much. "I found the whole story of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange and Mr. Beauchamp amongst my business papers--my husband's papers, I should say. It was signed and witnessed in New Orleans. It seems Warrender was dying there, and wanted to tell Mr. Beauchamp--Marlow, I mean--the truth, so he had the confession drawn up by a lawyer. Afterwards, when he got well, he did not destroy it." "Beauchamp was innocent of the murder, then?" "Yes. He knocked Achille Lestrange down, but he did not kill him." "Aha! I thought so!" chuckled Blair, rubbing his hands. "Who did?" Mrs. Warrender drew back with a look of cunning on her face. "That's tellings," said she, relapsing into the speech of her people. "I don't part with my secret unless I get my price." "Name your price." "Two thousand pounds."