“’You’re talking too loud, both of you!  Travers doesn’t understand, but he’s to be wised up to-night, according to orders, and—­’

“The voice became inaudible, muffled—­I could not hear any more.  I suppose I remained there another three or four minutes, too stunned to know what to do; and then I ran softly along the hall to the library door.  The library, you understand, was at the rear of the room they were in, and the two rooms were really one; that is, there was only an archway between them.  I cannot tell you what my emotions were—­I do not know.  I only know that I kept repeating to myself, ’they are going to kill me, they are going to kill me!’ and that it seemed I must try and find out everything, everything I could.”

She turned away from the table, and began to pace nervously up and down the miserable room.

Jimmie Dale rose impulsively from his chair—­but she waved him back again.

“No; wait!” she said.  “Let me finish.  I crept into the library.  It took me a long time, because I had to be so careful not to make the slightest noise.  I suppose it was fully six or seven minutes from the time I had first heard my supposed uncle’s voice until I had crept far enough forward to be able to see into the room beyond.  There were three men there.  The man I knew as my uncle was sitting at one end of the table; another had his back toward me; and Travers was facing in my direction—­and I think I never saw so ghastly a face as was Hilton Travers’ then.  He was standing up, sort of swaying, as he leaned with both hands on the table.

“‘Now then, Travers,’ the man whose back was turned to me was saying threateningly, ‘you’ve got the story now—­sign those papers!’

“It seemed as though Travers could not speak for a moment.  He kept looking wildly from one to the other.  He was white to the lips.

“‘You’ve let me in for—­this!’ he said hoarsely, at last, ’You devils—­you devils—­you devils!  You’ve let me in for—­murder!  Both of them!  Both Peter and his brother—­murdered!’”

She stopped abruptly before Jimmie Dale, and clutched his arm tightly.

“Jimmie, I don’t know why I did not scream out.  Everything went black for a moment before my eyes.  It was the first suspicion I had had that my father had met with foul play, and I—­”

But now Jimmie Dale swayed up from his chair.

“Murdered!” he exclaimed tensely.  “Your father!  But—­but I remember perfectly, there was no hint of any such thing at the time, and never has been since.  He died from quite natural causes.”

She looked at him strangely.

“He died from—­inoculation,” she said.  “Did—­did you not see something of that laboratory in the Crime Club yourself the night before last—­enough to understand?”

“Good God!” muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled way then:  “Go on!  Go on!  What happened then?”

She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes—­and sank down into her chair again.