“Why did you not write to me again?”

He looked at her steadily before he explained: 

“Because you are a woman.”

“What has that got to do with it?  I am your relative, and rich.  How much do you want?  If your scheme is really sound, I imagine my solicitors might sanction my co-operation.”

Again he hesitated.

“Thank you, Rita.  You are a good sort.  But I am not here on a matter of high finance.  I want you to lend me, say, L250.  I will return to the Argentine, and take twenty years to accomplish what I could do in five with the necessary capital.”

“Come and see me in the morning.  The sum you name is absurdly small, in any case.  Perhaps Mr. Brett will accompany you.  His advice will be useful to both of us.  Come early.  I leave here to-morrow.”

“Going away!  Where to?”

“To Whitby, in Yorkshire.”

“Well, that is curious,” said Robert, who clearly did not like to question her about her husband.

“Mr. Capella is in Naples,” she added.  “I cannot say when he will return.”

Her cousin’s look was eloquent of his thoughts.  He did not like the Italian, for some inexplicable reason, for to Margaret’s knowledge they had never met.

The barrister naturally did not interfere in this family conclave.  He listened intently, and had already drawn several inferences from the man’s words.  For the life of him he could not classify Robert Hume-Frazer.  The man was either a consummate scoundrel, the cold-blooded murderer of Margaret’s brother, or a maligned and ill-used man.

Within a few minutes he would be called upon to treat him in one category or the other.  A few questions might elucidate matters considerably.

The hiatus in the conversation created by the mention of Capella gave him an opportunity.

“Did you endeavour to raise the requisite capital for your estate in London only?” he inquired.

“No; I tried elsewhere,” was the quick rejoinder.

“Here, for instance, on the New Year’s Eve before last?”

“Now, how the blazes did you learn that?” came the fierce demand, the speaker’s excitement rendering him careless of the words he used.

“It is true, then?”

“Yes, but—­”

“Robert!—­” Margaret’s voice was choking, and her face was woefully white once more—­“were you—­here—­when Alan—­was killed?”

“No, not exactly.  This thing bewilders me.  Let me explain.  I saw him that afternoon.  We had a furious quarrel.  I never told you about it, Rita.  It was a family matter.  I do not hold you responsible.  I—­”

“Hold me responsible!  What do you mean?  Did you kill my brother?”

She rose to her feet.  Her eyes seemed to peer into his soul.  He, too, rose and faced her.

“By God,” he cried, “this is too much!  Why didn’t you ask your husband that question?”

“Because my husband, with all his faults, is innocent of that crime.  He was with me in London the night that Alan met his death.”