and of which I had not known how to dispose, was dictated by panic.  I knew the police were watching me and I was fool enough to think that I could escape their vigilance.

     “This is all I have to say.  It explains nothing and it does not
     exonerate me, I am aware, but I swear that it is the truth,”

     “(Signed) ERIC COVERLY, Bart.”

Although she retained so brave a composure I recognized the strain which this new and cruel ordeal had imposed upon Isobel; and Gatton incurred a further debt of gratitude by his tactful behavior, for: 

“Miss Merlin,” he said earnestly—­“you are a very brave woman.  Thank you.  I only wish I could have spared you this.”

Shaking me warmly by the hand, he bowed and departed, leaving me alone with Isobel.

As the sound of his footsteps died away Isobel returned again to the seat from which she had risen; and a silence fell between us.  My own feelings I cannot attempt to depict, but I will confess that I was afraid of my humanity at that moment.  Never had Isobel seemed more desirable; never had I longed as I longed now to take her in my arms.

The tension of that silence becoming insupportable: 

“You will not stay here alone?” I asked in an unnatural voice.

Isobel, without looking up, shook her head.

“I am going to Mrs. Wentworth—­my Aunt Alison,” she replied.

“Good,” I said.  “I am glad to know that you will be in her cheery company.”

Mrs. Wentworth was, indeed, a charming old lady, and so far as I knew, Isobel’s only relation in London, if not in England.  She occupied a house which, like herself, was small, scrupulously neat and old-worldly.  One of those tiny residences which, once counted as being “in the country,” had later become enmeshed in the ever-spreading tentacles of greater London.

It was situated on the northern outskirts of the county-city, and although rows of modern “villas” had grown up around it, within the walls of that quaint little homestead one found oneself far enough removed from suburbia.

“When are you going, Isobel?” I asked.

“I think,” she replied, “in the morning.”

“Will you let me drive you in the Rover?—­or are you taking too much baggage?”

“Oh, no,” she said, smiling sadly—­“I am going to live the simple life for a week.  Going out shopping with Aunt Alison—­and perhaps sometimes to the pictures!”

“Then I can drive you over?”

“Yes—­if you would like to,” she answered simply.

I took my leave shortly afterwards and proceeded to the Planet office.  I had work to do, but I must admit that I little relished the idea of returning to my cottage.  Diverted, now, from the notorious Red House, public interest had centered upon my residence, and the seclusion which I had gone so far to seek was disturbed almost hourly by impertinent callers who seemed to think that the scene of a sensational crime was public property.