which she simulated excellently.

"Killed! Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York? It
was Frederick Cavendish I referred to." Her pretence was admirable.

He was silent, realising lie had already said too much; the red had
come back into his cheeks, but his hand shook as it rested clenched on
the table.

"Tell me," she insisted, "has he been killed? How do you know?"

Her earnestness, her perfect acting, convinced him. It was a mere
coincidence, he thought, that this name should have cropped up between
them, but, now that it had, he must explain the whole affair so as not
to arouse suspicion. He cleared his throat and compelled his eyes to
meet those across the table.

"Well, I don't know much about it, only what I read," he began, feeling
for words. "But that was the name; I remembered it as soon as you
spoke, and that the papers said he had been mining in Colorado before
he came into money. He was found dead in his apartments, apparently
killed by a burglar who had rifled his safe."

"Is this true? Why have I never heard? When did it happen?"

"It must have been a month ago."

"But how did you learn these particulars? You have been West that
length of time."