III

Conway Jefferson looked up as his friend entered.

His grim face relaxed into a smile.

He said:

“Well, I told ’em. They took it very well.”

“What did you say?”

“Told ’em that, as Ruby was dead, I felt that the fifty thousand I’d origin-ally left her should go to something that I could associate with hermemory. It was to endow a hostel for young girls working as professionaldancers in London. Damned silly way to leave your money—surprisedthey swallowed it. As though I’d do a thing like that!”

He added meditatively:

“You know, I made a fool of myself over that girl. Must be turning into asilly old man. I can see it now. She was a pretty kid—but most of what Isaw in her I put there myself. I pretended she was another Rosamund.

Same colouring, you know. But not the same heart or mind. Hand me thatpaper—rather an interesting bridge problem.”

IV

Sir Henry went downstairs. He asked a question of the porter.

“Mr. Gaskell, sir? He’s just gone off in his car. Had to go to London.”

“Oh! I see. Is Mrs. Jefferson about?”

“Mrs. Jefferson, sir, has just gone up to bed.”

Sir Henry looked into the lounge and through to the ballroom. In thelounge Hugo McLean was doing a crossword puzzle and frowning a gooddeal over it. In the ballroom Josie was smiling valiantly into the face of astout, perspiring man as her nimble feet avoided his destructive tread. Thestout man was clearly enjoying his dance. Raymond, graceful and weary,was dancing with an anaemic-looking girl with adenoids, dull brown hair,and an expensive and exceedingly unbecoming dress.

Sir Henry said under his breath:

“And so to bed,” and went upstairs.

VIt was three o’clock. The wind had fallen, the moon was shining over thequiet sea.

In Conway Jefferson’s room there was no sound except his own heavybreathing as he lay, half propped up on pillows.

There was no breeze to stir the curtains at the window, but they stirred… For a moment they parted, and a figure was silhouetted against themoonlight. Then they fell back into place. Everything was quiet again, butthere was someone else inside the room.

Nearer and nearer to the bed the intruder stole. The deep breathing onthe pillow did not relax.

There was no sound, or hardly any sound. A finger and thumb wereready to pick up a fold of skin, in the other hand the hypodermic wasready.

And then, suddenly, out of the shadows a hand came and closed overthe hand that held the needle, the other arm held the figure in an irongrasp.

An unemotional voice, the voice of the law, said:

“No, you don’t. I want that needle!”

The light switched on and from his pillows Conway Jefferson lookedgrimly at the murderer of Ruby Keene.