“But you told me——­” he cried, turning to Harry Luttrell and so broke off.  “Are you speaking the truth, Jenny?”

Suddenly Jenny’s composure broke up.  The blood rushed into her face.  She shouted violently: 

“I swear it!  If it was my last dying word, I do!  Chloroform indeed!” She became sarcastic.  “What an idea!  Just fancy!”

Sir Chichester threw down his pen.  He was aghast before the conclusion to which his examination was leading him.

“But, if Stella didn’t put that glass of chloroform between her pillows—­herself—­of her own accord—­why then, whilst she was asleep——­” He would not utter the inevitable induction.  But it was clear enough, hideous enough to all of them.  Why then, whilst she was asleep, some one entered the room, placed the chloroform where its deadly fumes would do their work, locked her door upon her and tossed the key out on to the lawn.  A charge of murder—­nothing less.

“Don’t you see what you are suggesting, Jenny,” Sir Chichester spluttered helplessly.

“I am suggesting nothing, sir,” the maid answered stolidly.  “I am answering questions.”

She was lying, of course!  Hillyard had not a doubt of it.  Jenny Prask was the malevolent force of which he was in search.  So much had, at all events, sprung clear from Sir Chichester’s blunderings.  And some hint, too, of the plan which malevolence had formed—­not more than a hint!  That Jenny Prask intended to sustain a charge of murder Martin did not believe.  She was of too strong a brain for that folly.  But she had some clear purpose to harm somebody; and Martin’s heart sank as he conjectured who that some one might, nay must, be.  Meanwhile, he thought, let Sir Chichester pursue his questioning.  He got glimpses through that clouded medium into Jenny Prask’s mind.

“You must realise, Jenny, the unfortunate position into which your answers are leading you,” said Sir Chichester with a trace of bluster.

Hillyard could have laughed.  As if she didn’t realise exactly the drift and meaning of every word which she uttered.  Jenny was not at all perturbed by Sir Chichester’s manner.  Her face took on a puzzled look.

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“No?  Let me make it clear!  If your mistress never took drugs, if she did not place the glass of chloroform in the particular position which would ensure her death, then, since you, her maid, were alone in this part of the house with her and were the last person to see her alive——­”

“No, sir,” Jenny Prask interrupted.

Sir Chichester stared.  He was more and more out of his depth, and these were waters in which expert swimming was required.

“I don’t understand.  Do you say that somebody saw Mrs. Croyle after she had dismissed you for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you please explain?”