“With Dane,” he muttered.

She nodded.

“Yes, that was his name—­Mr. Edward Dane.  I came out to identify Douglas.”

“You weren’t going to give him away?” Philip asked curiously.

“Of course not.  I should have made my bargain, and then, after I had scared Douglas for leaving me as he did, I should have said that it wasn’t the man.  And instead—­I found you!”

He tapped the table with his fingers, restlessly.  A new hope was forming in his brain.  This, indeed, might be the end of all his troubles.

“Listen,” he said earnestly, “Dane has always suspected me.  Sometimes I have wondered whether he hadn’t the truth at the back of his head.  You can make me safe forever.”

She made no reply.  Her eyes were watching his face.  She seemed to be waiting to hear what else he had to say.

“Don’t you understand?” he went on impatiently.  “You have only to tell Dane that I am neither Douglas nor Philip, but curiously like both, and he will chuck the thing up.  He must.  Then I shall be safe.  You see that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I see that,” she admitted.

“Well?”

“Tell me exactly how much of Douglas’ money you have spent?” she demanded.

“Only the loose money from the pocketbook.  Not all of that.  I am earning money now.”

She leaned across the table.

“What about the twenty thousand pounds?”

“I haven’t touched it,” he assured her, “not a penny.”

“On your honour?”

He rose silently and went to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and drew from a hidden place a thin strip of paper.  He smoothed it out on the table before her.

“There’s the deposit note,” he said,—­“Twenty thousand pounds to the joint or separate credit of Beatrice Wenderley and Douglas Romilly, on demand.  The money’s there still.  I haven’t touched it.”

She gripped the paper in her fingers.  The sight of the figures seemed to fascinate her.  Then she looked around.

“How can you afford to live in a place like this, then?” she demanded suspiciously.  “Where does your money come from?”

“The play,” he told her.

“What, all this?” she exclaimed.

“It is a great success.  The theatre is packed every night.  My royalties come every week to far more than I could spend.”

She looked once more around her, gripped the deposit note in her fingers, and leaned back in her chair.  She laughed curiously.  Her eyes had travelled back to Philip’s anxious face.

“Wonderful!” she murmured.  “You paid the price, but you’ve won.  You’ve had something for it.  I paid the price, and up till now—­”

She stared at the paper in her hand.  Then she looked away into the fire.

“I can’t get it all into my head,” she went on.  “I pictured him here, living in luxury, spending the money of which he had promised me a share ... and he’s dead!  That was his body—­that unrecognisable thing they found in the canal.  You killed him—­Douglas!  He was so fond of life, too.”