“Who has done this?” she asked, pointing downwards.

“It may have been an accident,” Arnold suggested.

“An accident!” she repeated.  “What was he doing in my sitting-room?  Besides, he could not have crept underneath the couch of his own accord.”

“Do you know who it is?” Arnold asked.

“Why should I know?” she demanded.

He hesitated.

“You remember the night of my first visit here—­the face at the window?”

She nodded.  He pointed downward to the outstretched hand.

“That is the man,” he declared.  “He is wearing the same ring—­the red signet ring.  I saw it upon his hand the night you and I were in this room alone together, and he was watching the house.  I saw it again through the window of the swing-doors on the hand of the man who killed Rosario.  What does it mean, Fenella?”

“I do not know,” she faltered.

“You must have some idea,” he persisted, “as to who he is.  You seemed to expect his coming that night.  You would not let me give an alarm or send for the police.  It was the same man who killed Rosario.”

She shook her head.

“I do not believe that,” she declared.

“If it were not the same man,” Arnold continued, “it was at least some one who was wearing the same ring.  Tell me the truth, Fenella!”

She turned her head.  Groves had come once more within hearing.

“I know nothing,” she replied, hardly.  “Groves, go and knock at the door of your master’s room,” she added.  “Ask him to put on his dressing-gown and come down at once.  Mr. Chetwode, come with me into the library while I telephone for the doctor.”

Arnold hesitated for a moment.

“Don’t you think that I had better stay by him?” he suggested.

She shook her head.

“I will not be left alone,” she replied.  “I told you on the way here that I was afraid.  All the evening I knew that something would happen.”

They made their way to the front of the house and into the library.  She turned up the electric lights and fetched a telephone book.  Arnold rang up the number she showed him.

“What about the police station?” he asked, turning towards her with the receiver still in his hand.  “Oughtn’t I to send for some one?”

“Not yet,” she replied.  “We are not supposed to know.  The man may have come upon some business.  Let us wait and see what the doctor says.”

He laid down the receiver.  She had thrown herself into an easy-chair and with a little impulsive gesture she held out one hand towards him.

“Poor Arnold!” she murmured.  “I am afraid that this is all very bewildering to you, and your life was so peaceful until a week ago.”

He held her fingers tightly.  Notwithstanding the shadows under her eyes, and the gleam of terror which still lingered there, she was beautiful.