“But I don’t suggest, sir, that Miss Whitworth came back in order to quarrel with my mistress,” Jenny Prask returned, as soon as Sir Chichester’s spate of words ran down.  “I only give you the facts I know.  I am quite sure that Miss Whitworth can quite easily explain why she came back to Rackham Park last night.  There can’t be any difficulty about that!”

Jenny Prask had kept every intonation of her voice under her control.  There was no hint of irony or triumph.  She was a respectful lady’s maid, frankly answering questions about her dead mistress.  But she did not so successfully keep sentinel over her looks.  She could not but glance from time to time at Harry Luttrell savouring his trouble and anxiety; and when she expressed her conviction that Joan could so easily clear up these mysteries, such a flame of hatred burnt suddenly in her eyes that it lit Martin Hillyard straight to the heart of her purpose.

“So that’s it,” he thought, and was terrified as he grasped its reach.  An accusation of murder!  Oh, nothing so crude.  But just enough suggestion of the possibility of murder to make it absolutely necessary that Joan Whitworth should go into the witness box at the coroner’s inquest and acknowledge before the world that she had hurried secretly back from Harrel to meet Mario Escobar in an empty house.  Mario Escobar too!  Of all people, Mario Escobar!  Jenny Prask had builded better than she knew.  That telegram which Martin had welcomed with so much relief but an hour ago taunted him now.  The scandal would have been bad enough if Mario Escobar were nothing more than the shady hunter of women he was supposed to be.  It would be ten times louder now that Mario Escobar had been interned as a traitor within twelve hours of the secret meeting!

Some escape must be discovered from the peril.  Else the mud of it would cling to Joan all her life.  She would be spoilt.  Harry Luttrell, too!  If he married her, if he did not.  But Martin could not think of a way out.  The whole plan was an artful, devilish piece of hard-headed cunning.  Martin fell to wondering where was Jenny Prask’s weak joint.  She certainly looked, with her quiet strength, as if she had not one at all.

To make matters worse, Miranda Brown chose this moment to re-enter the hall.  Sir Chichester, warned already by Martin, threw the warning to the winds.

“Miranda, you are the very person to help us,” he cried.  “Now listen to me, my dear, and don’t get flurried.  Think carefully, for your answer may have illimitable consequences!  After your arrival at Harrel last night, did Joan return here immediately in your car?”

Sir Chichester had never been so impressive.  Miranda was frightened and changed colour.  But she had given her promise and she kept it pluckily.

“No,” she answered.

Jenny Prask permitted herself to smile her disbelief.  Sir Chichester was triumphant.

“Well, there’s an end of your pretty story, my girl,” he said.  “You wanted to do a little mischief, did you?  Well, you haven’t!  And here, by a stroke of luck, is Joan herself to settle the matter.”