There was a queer silence. Arnold felt inclined to rub his eyes.
Gone was at least part of the horror from their white faces. Fenella
sank back in her chair with a little sob which might almost have
been of relief. Starling, as though suddenly mindful of the
conventions, assumed a grimly dolorous aspect.

"Poor fellow!" he muttered. "And the murderer?"

"He's gotten clean off, for the present at any rate," Arnold told
them. "They seem to think that he reached the Strand and had a motor
car waiting."

Again there was silence. Then Mrs. Weatherley rose to her feet,
glanced for a moment in the looking-glass, and turning round held
out both her hands to Arnold.

"You have been so kind to me," she said softly. "I shall not forget
it--indeed I shall not. Mr. Starling is going to take me home in his
car. Good-bye!"

Arnold held her hands steadfastly and looked into her eyes. They
were more beautiful than ever now with their mist of risen tears.
But there were other things in her face, things less easy to
understand. He turned away regretfully.

"I am sorry that you should have had such a shock," he said. "Is
there any message for Mr. Weatherley?"

She exchanged a quick glance with her companion. Then for the first