“Let’s go, Alec,” said Cynthia, not unkindly, yet just a little pettishly.  The great moment of her life—­surely as great a moment as there had ever been in anybody’s life—­had hardly earned adequate recognition from Mary.  As usual, her feelings and Alec’s were at one.  Before they passed to other and more important matters, when they drove off in the car she said to Alec, “It seems to me that Mary’s strangely interested in that Mr. Beaumaroy.  Had she been dreaming of him, Alec?”

“Looks like it!  And why the devil Morocco?” His intellect baffled, Captain Alec took refuge in his affections.

Left alone, and so thankful for it, Doctor Mary did not attempt to sit still.  She walked up and down, she roved here and there, smoking any quantity of cigarettes; she would certainly have forbidden such excess to a patient.  The keyword; its significance had seemed to come to her in her sleep.  Something in that subconsciousness theory?  The word explained, linked up, gave significance—­that magical word Morocco!

Yes, they fell into place now, the things that had been so puzzling, and that looked now so obviously suggestive.  Even one thing which she had thought nothing about, which had not struck her as having any significance, now took on its meaning—­the gray shawl which the old gentleman so constantly wore swathed round his body, enveloping the whole of it except his right arm.  Did he wear the shawl while he took his meals?  Doctor Mary could not tell as to that.  Perhaps he did not; at his meals only Beaumaroy, and perhaps their servant, would be present.  But he seemed to wear it whenever he went abroad, whenever he was exposed to the scrutiny of strangers.  That indicated secretiveness, perhaps fear, the apprehension of something.  The caution bred by that might give way under the influence of great cerebral excitement.  Unquestionably Mr. Saffron had been very excited when he waved the sheet of hieroglyphics and shouted to Beaumaroy about Morocco.  But whether he wore the shawl or not in the safe privacy of Tower Cottage, whatever might be the truth about that—­perhaps he varied his practice according to his condition—­on one thing Doctor Mary would stake her life; he used the combination knife-and-fork!

For it was over that implement that Beaumaroy had tripped up.  It ought to have been hidden before she was admitted to the cottage.  Somebody had been careless, somebody had blundered—­whether Beaumaroy himself or his servant was immaterial.  Beaumaroy had lied, readily and ingeniously, but not quite readily enough.  The dart of his hand had betrayed him; that, and a look in his eyes, a tell-tale mirth which had seemed to mock both her and himself, and had made his ingenious lie even at the moment unconvincing.  Yes, whether Mr. Saffron wore the shawl or not, he certainly used the combination table implement!

And the “poems?” The poems which Mr. Saffron recited to himself in bed, and which he had said, in Captain Alec’s hearing, were good and “went well.”  It was Beaumaroy, of course, who had called them poems; the Captain had merely repeated the description.  But with her newly found insight Doctor Mary knew better.  What Mr. Saffron declaimed in that vibrating, metallic voice, were not poems, but—­speeches!