breath.
He tried to get up from his chair, and fell back with a curse of
impotence.

"Push me along to the door," he said. "Take me to that little room
behind the library where you have been before. I am going to show you
something, and I'm going to reveal a plot to you. We shall want all your
brutal bulldog courage to-night."

The chair slid along on its cushioned wheels, the door closed with a
gentle spring, and, as it did, a female figure emerged from behind a
great bank of flowers just inside the conservatory. She crossed on
tip-toe to the door and as gently closed it. As the light fell it lit up
the pale sad features of the grey lady--the Slave of Silence.

CHAPTER IX

It was with a sigh of relief that Beatrice found herself at length
alone. There was nothing for her to do now but to get her belongings
together and leave the hotel. There would be an inquest on the body of
Sir Charles at ten o'clock the following morning, as the authorities had
already informed her, but Beatrice had looked upon this as merely a
formal affair. She would pack her things and leave them in Sir Charles's
dressing-room--the door of which had not been sealed--and send for
everything on the morrow. All her costly presents, including the
wonderful diamonds from Stephen Richford, she had entirely forgotten. A
somewhat tired detective was still watching the jewels in a room off the
hall where the wedding breakfast was laid out. But the fact had escaped
Beatrice's attention.

Lady Rashborough was having tea alone in her boudoir when Beatrice
arrived. Her pretty little ladyship was not looking quite so amiable as
usual and there was the suggestion of a frown on her face. She had been
losing a great deal at bridge lately, and that was not the kind of
pastime that Rashborough approved. He was very fond of his empty, hard,
selfish, little wife, but he had put his foot down on gambling, and Lady
Rashborough had been forced to give her promise to discontinue it. The
little woman cared nothing for anyone but herself, and she had small
sympathy for Beatrice.

"What are you doing here?" she asked pettishly. "Where is your husband?"

"That I cannot tell you," Beatrice replied. "You hardly expected that I
should have started on my honeymoon under such circumstances, did you?"

"My dear child, don't talk nonsense! Of course not. The proper thing is
to go to some very quiet hotel and dine respectably--to lie low till the
funeral is over.