“Why not?” I asked, surprised at his vehemence.

“Because, in the first place, her testimony can’t help me; and, in the second place, I won’t have her tortured.”

“She wouldn’t be tortured.”

“Look around at these reporters and these photographers, and then tell me she wouldn’t be tortured!”

“How do you know her evidence won’t help you?”

“How can it?”

“It will confirm your story.”

“Can it explain away the finger-prints?”

At the words, I suddenly realised that there was one person within striking distance of the murdered man whose prints we had not taken—­his daughter.  Not that they were necessary ...

Dr. Hinman appeared at the edge of the lawn and beckoned.  As I arose from my chair, Swain gave my arm a last savage grip.

“Remember!” he said.

But I kept my lips closed.  If Miss Vaughan really loved him, and could help him, I would not need to urge her to the stand!

Goldberger joined me and together we followed Hinman into the house and up the stairs.  He opened the door at the stair-head, waited for us to precede him, followed us into the room, and closed the door gently.

Miss Vaughan was half-sitting, half-reclining in a large chair.  The blinds were drawn and the room in semi-darkness, but even in that light I could see how changed she was from the girl of whom I had caught a glimpse two days before.  Her face was dead white, as though every drop of blood had been drained from it; her eyes were heavy and puffed, as from much weeping, and it seemed to me that there still lingered in their depths a shadow of horror and shrinking fear.

“This is Mr. Goldberger,” said the doctor, “and this is Mr. Lester.”

She inclined her head to each of us, as we took the chairs the doctor drew up, and I fancied that her cheeks flushed a little as her eyes met mine.

“I have explained to Miss Vaughan,” the doctor continued, “that an inquiry is in progress, as the law requires, to determine the manner of her father’s death, and that her story of what happened that night is essential to it.”

“It will, at least, be a great help to us,” said Goldberger gently, and I saw how deeply the girl’s delicate beauty appealed to him.  It was a beauty which no pallor could disguise, and Goldberger’s temperament was an impressionable one.

“I shall be glad to tell you all I know,” said Miss Vaughan, “but I fear it will not help you much.”

“Will you tell us something, first, of your father’s mental state?” I suggested.

“For many years,” she began, “father had been a student of mysticism, and until quite recently he remained merely a student.  I mean by that that he approached the subject with a detached mind and with no interest in it except a scientific interest.”

“I understand,” I said.  “And that has changed recently?”

“It has changed completely in the last few months.  He became a disciple, a convert anxious to win other converts.”