tion of her glance.

"You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective--is it not so?" she asked,
as she sat down. The glance she now gave the detective at closer range
from her large dark eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch of
admiration. The contrast between it and her former look was not lost on
Crewe, and he realised that his visitor was no ordinary woman.

"My name is Crewe," he said, ignoring the compliment. "What do you wish
to see me for?"

The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously unfastened a bag she
carried, and taking out a singularly unfeminine-looking handkerchief--a
large cambric square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltless
of lace or perfume--held it to her face for a moment. But Crewe noticed
that her eyes were dry when she removed it to remark:

"What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confidence--as sacred as
the confession."

"Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence," said Crewe a
little grimly.

"And the boy? Can he not hear through the keyhole?" Crewe's visitor
glanced expressively at the door by which she had entered.

"You are quite safe here, madame--mademoiselle, I should say," he added,
with a quick glance at her left hand, from which she slowly removed the
glove as she spoke.

"Mademoiselle Chiron, monsieur," said Gabrielle, flashing another smile
at him. "I am Madame Holymead's relative--her cousin. I come to see you
about the dreadful murder of the judge, Madame's friend."

"You come from Mrs. Holymead?" said Crewe quickly. "Then, Mademoiselle
Chiron, before--"

"No, no, monsieur, no!" Her agitation was unmistakably genuine. "I do not
come _from_ Madame Holymead. I am her relative, it is true, but I
come--how shall I say it?--from myself. I mean she does not know of my
visit to you, monsieur."

"I quite understand," replied Crewe.

"Monsieur Crewe," said Gabrielle hurriedly, "although I have not come
from Madame Holymead, it is for her sake that I come to see you--to save
her from the persecution of one of your police agents who wants to ask
her questions about this so sordid--so terrible a crime! He has come
once, this agent--last night he came--and he told me he wanted to
question Madame Holymead about the murder of her dear friend the judge. I
do not want Madame worried with these questions, so I told him Madame was
away in the motor in the country; but he says he will come again and
again till he sees her. Madame is distracted