Beaumaroy returned to the parlor hastily; not so much to avoid keeping Captain Alec waiting—­it was quite a useful precaution to have that sentry on duty a little longer—­as because his curiosity and interest had been excited by the description which Doctor Mary had given of Mr. Saffron’s death.  It was true, probably the precise truth, but it seemed to have been volunteered in a rather remarkable way and worded with careful purpose.  Also it was the bare truth, the truth denuded of all its attendant circumstances—­which had not been normal.

When he rejoined her, Mary was sitting in the armchair by the fire; she heard his account of the state of affairs up-to-date with a thoughtful smile, smoking a cigarette; her smile broadened over the tale of the water-butt.  She had put on the fur cloak in which she had walked to the cottage—­the fire was out and the room cold; framed in the furs, the outline of her face looked softer.

“So we stand more or less as we did before the burglars appeared on the scene,” she commented.

“Except that our personal exertions have saved that money.”

“I suppose you would prefer that all the circumstances shouldn’t come out?  There have been irregularities.”

“I should prefer that, not so much on my own account—­I don’t know and don’t care what they could do to me—­as for the old man’s sake.”

“If I know you, I think you would rather enjoy being able to keep your secret.  You like having the laugh of people.  I know that myself, Mr. Beaumaroy.”  She exchanged a smile with him.  “You want a death certificate from me,” she added.

“I suppose I do,” Beaumaroy agreed.

“In the sort of terms in which I described Mr. Saffron’s death to Captain Alec?  If I gave such a certificate, there would remain nothing—­well, nothing peculiar—­except the—­the appearance of things in the Tower.”

Her eyes were now fixed on his face; he nodded his head with a smile of understanding.  There was something new in the tone of Doctor Mary’s voice; not only friendliness, though that was there, but a note of excitement, of enjoyment, as though she also were not superior to the pleasure of having the laugh of people.  “But it’s rather straining a point to say that—­and nothing more.  I could do it only if you made me feel that I could trust you absolutely.”

Beaumaroy made a little grimace, and waited for her to develop her subject.

“Your morality is different from most people’s, and from mine.  Mine is conventional.”

“Conventual!” Beaumaroy murmured.

“Yours isn’t.  It’s all personal with you.  You recognize no rights in people whom you don’t like, or who you think aren’t deserving, or haven’t earned rights.  And you don’t judge your own rights by what the law gives you, either.  The right of conquest you called it; you hold yourself free to exercise that against everybody, except your friends, and against everybody in the interest of your friends—­like poor Mr. Saffron.  I believe you’d do the same for me if I asked you to.”