nds, newspaper men, alike, Eileen
Meredith denied herself resolutely. "She has been rendered completely
prostrate by the shock," said the _Daily Wire_ in the course of a highly
coloured character sketch. Other statements, more or less true, with
double and treble column photographs of herself, crept into other
papers. Night and day a little cluster of journalists hung about,
watching the front door, scanning every caller and questioning them when
they were turned away. Now and again one would go to the door and make a
hopeless attempt to see some member of the household.

But Eileen was not prostrate, in spite of the _Daily Wire_. She wanted
to be alone with her thoughts. Her gay vivacity had deserted her, and
she had become a sombre woman, with mouth set in rigid lines, and with a
fierce intensity for vengeance, none the less implacable because she
felt her impotence. In such unreasoning moods some women become
dangerous.

She had curtly rejected her father's suggestion that she should see a
doctor. Nor would she leave London to try and forget amid fresh
surroundings.

"Here I will stay until Bob's murderer is punished," she had said, and
her white teeth had come together viciously.

A night and a day had passed since her interview with Heldon Foyle.
Reflection had not convinced her that his cold reason was right. She
had made up her mind that Fairfield was the murderer. Nothing could
shake her from that conviction. Scotland Yard, she thought, was afraid
of him because he was a man of position. The square-faced superintendent
who had spoken so smoothly was probably trying to shield him. But she
knew. She was certain. Suppose she told all she knew? Her slim hands
clenched till the nails cut her flesh, as she determined that he should
pay the price of his crime. There was another justice than the law. If
the law failed her----

A medical man or a student of psychology might have found an analysis of
her feelings interesting. She had reached the border-line of monomania,
yet he would have been a daring man who would have called her absolutely
insane. Except to Foyle she had said nothing of the feeling that
obsessed her.

With cool deliberation she unlocked a drawer of her escritoire and
picked out a dainty little ivory-butted revolver with polished barrel.
It was very small--almost a toy. She broke it apart and pushed five
cartridges into the chambers. With a furtive glance over her shoulder
she placed it in her b