l your
might to put from your mind the fact that you know him. Do not let his
personality influence you in any way, or his speech. Only listen to
the tones of his voice--listen and try to recall that other voice
which you heard here on the night of your father's death. If in his
tones you recognize that voice, step from behind those curtains and
face him. If not--and you must be absolutely sure that you do
recognize the voice, that you could swear to it under oath in a court
of justice, realizing that it will probably mean swearing away a man's
life--if you are not sure, remain silent."

"I understand, Mr. Blaine. I will not fail you. I could not be
mistaken; the voice which I heard here that night rings still in my
ears; its echo seems yet to linger in the room." Her gaze wandered to
the great leather chair, which had been replaced in its usual
position. "Now that you have restored Ramon to me, I want only to
avenge my father, and I shall be content. To be murdered, in his own
home! Poisoned like a rat in a trap! I shall not rest until the coward
who killed him has been brought to justice!"

"He will be, Miss Lawton! The trap has been baited again, and unless I
am greatly mistaken, the murderer will walk straight into it.--There
is the bell! I gave orders that you were to be at home to no one
except the man I expect and that he was to be ushered in here
immediately upon his arrival, without being announced--so take your
place, now, please, behind the curtains. Do not try to watch the
man--only listen with all your ears; and above all do not betray
yourself until the proper moment comes for disclosing your presence."

Without a word Anita disappeared into the window-seat, and the
curtains fell into place behind her. The detective had only time to
step in the shadow of a dark corner beside one of the tall bookcases,
when the door was thrown open. A man stood upon the threshold--a tall,
fair man of middle age, with a small blond mustache, and a monocle
dangling from a narrow black ribbon about his neck. From the very
correct gardenia in his buttonhole to the very immaculate spats upon
his feet, he was a careful prototype of the Piccadilly exquisite--a
little faded, perhaps, slightly effete, but perfect in detail. He
halted for a moment, as if he, too, were blinded by the swift change
from sunshine to gloom. Then, advancing slowly, his pale, protruding
eyes wandered to the great chair by the fireplace, and lingered as i