d not be disagreeable
to you, and probably will not be. My name is Gryce. This will probably
convey nothing to you, but I am not unknown to the management below,
and my years must certainly give you confidence in the propriety of my
errand. A beautiful and charming young woman died here last night. May I
ask if you knew her?"

"I?" She was trembling violently now, but whether with indignation or
some other more subtle emotion, it would be difficult to say. "No, I'm
from the South. I never saw the young lady. Why do you ask? I do not
recognise your right. I--I--"

Certainly her emotion must be that of simple indignation. Mr. Gryce made
one of his low bows, and propping himself against the table he stood
before, remarked civilly:--

"I had rather not force my rights. The matter is so very ordinary. I did
not suppose you knew Miss Challoner, but one must begin somehow, and as
you came in at the very moment when the alarm was raised in the lobby,
I thought perhaps you could tell me something which would aid me in my
effort to elicit the real facts of the case. You were crossing the lobby
at the time--"

"Yes." She raised her head. "So were a dozen others--"

"Madam,"--the interruption was made in his kindliest tones, but in a way
which nevertheless suggested authority. "Something was picked up from
the floor at that moment. If the dozen you mention were witnesses
to this act we do not know it. But we do know that it did not pass
unobserved by you. Am I not correct? Didn't you see a certain person--I
will mention no names--stoop and pick up something from the lobby
floor?"

"No." The word came out with startling violence. "I was conscious of
nothing but the confusion." She was facing him with determination and
her eyes were fixed boldly on his face. But her lips quivered, and her
cheeks were white, too white now for simple indignation.

"Then I have made a big mistake," apologised the ever-courteous
detective. "Will you pardon me? It would have settled a very serious
question if it could be found that the object thus picked up was the
weapon which killed Miss Challoner. That is my excuse for the trouble I
have given you."

He was not looking at her; he was looking at her hand which rested
on the table before which he himself stood. Did the fingers tighten a
little and dig into the palm they concealed? He thought so, and was very
slow in turning limpingly about towards the door. Meanwhile, would she
speak? No. The