“Then,” said Miss Vale, “you really think they will do as Mr. Osborne said?”

“I have no doubt of it—­if the matter is not cleared up before the time arrives for them to act.”

The girl arose and went to a window as though to look out; the investigator saw her hand pressed to her heart, and noted the trembling that had seized her.  Yet, when she faced him once more, a moment or two later, she made a brave attempt to smile as before.

“I think this is too bad of you,” she said.  “Your point of view is almost as pessimistic as the detectives’, or the newspapers’.  I had expected comfort and encouragement.”

“And I came to give it—­if you’ll allow me,” said Ashton-Kirk, quietly.

She looked at him for a moment, then both hands went out in a mock despairing gesture, and she laughed.  But the laugh was unmistakably forced, and a keen ear for such things would have detected a pathetic little catch in it.

“Now,” she said, “you are becoming mysterious.  However, I suppose I must not complain, for it is entirely in character with your profession, isn’t it?”

He disregarded both the observation and the tone; there was a slight pucker between his keen eyes that spoke of impatience and resentment.

“Mr. Osborne has been very plain with you, Miss Vale,” said he, “you have perhaps become accustomed to it in a measure.  So I shall not hesitate to follow in his footsteps.  I am going to make you face some very plain facts.”

“Mercy!” She laughed.  “Mercy, Mr. Ashton-Kirk.  I had not thought that you could be so deliberately cruel!”

“In the first place, Miss Vale,” he began, paying not the slightest attention to her laughter or the mocking light in her eyes, “if you had continued as you began, this matter would have been cleared up before this, the newspapers would never have printed your name in connection with it, and you would have been spared the mortification of a detective at your doorstep.”

“Is there one—­outside?”

“There are several.  If you venture out you will be followed wherever you go.”

The girl sank into a chair in a limp, rumpled sort of way; somehow the idea of surveillance affected her more than anything else.  Her face became ashen; her hands shook distressfully as she clasped them tightly together.

“When you allowed the fears and desires of Allan Morris to cloud your reason, you made a mistake.  You admitted as much when you came to me after the murder; but instantly, upon seeing him again, you were as before.  He was struck with fear, and he communicated his terror to you; as before you dreaded to trust anyone—­even myself.”

“I think you are inclined to take a great deal for granted,” said Miss Vale.  But in spite of the words, her eyes were wide with alarm.

“He told you of the deaf-mute, Locke,” said Ashton-Kirk; “and also other things, which seem to have induced you to visit Locke at the Institute near Cordova on the night before last.”