her over, and Caldew
reflected that he had been made the instrument of her fall.

But what lay beyond the exposure of the housekeeper's identity? Why had
she deceived Merrington about her daughter's presence in the house? Was
it only the fear that Merrington would recognize her in her early
likeness to her daughter, or were her falsehoods intended to deceive the
detectives about Hazel's movements at the time of the murder? What would
the girl say? The situation was full of strange possibilities.

While these reflections were passing through Caldew's head there was
silence in the room, broken only by the clock on the mantelpiece ticking
loudly, with pert indifference to human affairs. Merrington, after
dragging the hidden and forgotten tragedy to light, remained quiet,
watchfully noting the effect on mother and daughter. The mother stood
without a word or gesture, her hand stiffened in arrested protest, like
a woman frozen into silence. The girl's look was directed towards her
mother with the fixity of gaze of a sleeper awakened in the horror of a
bad dream. At least in their stillness they were both in accord. Then
Hazel glanced wonderingly at the faces of the others in the room, with
the fatigued indifference of a returning consciousness seeking to regain
its bearings. This phase passed, and in the sudden wild burst of tears
which followed was the belated realization of the meaning of her
mother's exposure; the shame, the agony, the disgrace which it implied.
With a quick movement she rose from her seat, walked across to her
mother, and caught hold of her hand.

"Mother!" she said.

But her mother turned away from her, and, sinking in her chair, covered
her face in her hands with a shamed gesture, like a woman cast forth
naked in the light of day.

"Never mind your mother just now," said Merrington, as the girl bent
over as though to sooth her. "Please return to your seat and answer my
questions."

Hazel turned round at the sound of his voice, but stood where she was,
regarding him anxiously.

"You stayed here last night with your mother, I understand?" Merrington
continued.

"Yes."

"When did you arrive here?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Where from?"

"From Stading, by train. I had an afternoon off, and I came to see my
mother."

"How long is it since you visited her previously?"

"It must be about three months," said Hazel, after a short reflection.

"Do you always allow three months to elapse bet