of dreamy abstraction dropped like a cloak discarded. He fully realized, as I did, that his unique reputation was at stake. I wondered, as I had wondered at the Guest House, whether, in undertaking to clear Colin Camber, he had acted upon sheer conviction, or, embittered by the death of his client, had taken a gambler’s chance. It was unlike him to do so. But now beyond reach of that charm of manner which Colin Camber possessed, and discounting the pathetic sweetness of his girl-wife, I realized how black was the evidence against him.
Occupied with these, and even more troubled thoughts, I was making my way toward the library, undetermined how to act, when I saw Val Beverley coming along the corridor which communicated with Madame de Stämer’s room.
I read a welcome in her eyes which made my heart beat the faster.
“Oh, Mr. Knox,” she cried, “I am so glad you have returned. Tell me all that has happened, for I feel in some way that I am responsible for it.”
I nodded gravely.
“You know, then, where Inspector Aylesbury went when he left here, after his interview with you?”
She looked at me pathetically.
“He went to the Guest House, of course.”
“Yes,” I said; “he was close behind us.”
“And”—she hesitated—“Mr. Camber?”
“He has been detained.”
“Oh!” she moaned. “I could hate myself! Yet what could I say, what could I do?”
“Just tell me all about it,” I urged. “What were the Inspector’s questions?”
“Well,” explained the girl, “he had evidently learned
