“Mrs. Croyle never took chloroform as a drug.  Mrs. Croyle had no troubles.  Mrs. Croyle was quite gay this week.  Yet she was found dead with a glass of chloroform arranged between her pillows, so that the fumes must kill her—­and Jenny Prask was her maid.  A motor-car took the news of Mrs. Croyle’s death to London before it had occurred and took the news from Rackham Park.  There was only one motor-car in the garage—­Mrs. Croyle’s—­and Mrs. Croyle’s chauffeur was engaged to Jenny Prask, Mrs. Croyle’s maid.  London then telephones to Rackham Park for corroboration of the news, and a woman’s voice confirms it—­an hour before it was true.  There are only two women to choose from, Mrs. Croyle and Jenny Prask, her maid.  But since Mrs. Croyle never took drugs, and had no troubles or thoughts of suicide and was quite gay, it follows that Jenny Prask——­”

At this point Jenny interrupted in a voice in which fear was now very distinctly audible.  “Why, you can’t mean—­Oh, my lady, you are telling me that—­oh!”

“Yes, it begins to look black, Jenny, but I am not at the end,” Millie Splay continued implacably.  Jenny was not the only woman in that house who could fight if her darling was attacked.  “You proceed to direct suspicion at a young girl with the statement that you never saw your mistress after half past nine that night or helped her to undress; and to complete your treachery, you take the key of Mrs. Croyle’s door which you found inside her room this morning, and threw it where it may avert inquiry from you and point it against another.”

Jenny Prask flinched.  The conviction with which Lady Splay announced as a fact the opinion of the small conclave about the table quite deceived her.

“So you know about the key?” she said sullenly.  And about the table ran a little quiver of relief.  With that question, Jenny Prask had delivered herself into their hands.

“Yes.”

Jenny stood with a mutinous face and silent lips.  Lady Splay had marshalled in their order the items of the case which would be made against her, if she persisted in her lie.  How would she receive them?  Persist, reckless of her own overthrow, so long as she overthrew Joan Whitworth too?  Or surrender angrily?  The four people watched for her answer with anxiety; and it was given in a way which they least expected.  For Jenny covered her face with her hands, her shoulders began to heave and great tears burst out between her fingers and trickled down the backs of her hands.

“It’s unbearable,” she sobbed.  “I would have given my life for her—­that’s the truth.  Oh, I know that most maids serve their mistresses for what they can get out of them.  But she was so kind to me—­wherever she went she was thoughtful of my comfort.  Oh, if I had guessed what she meant to do!  And I might have!”