“Go on, Countess,” he smiled.

She shrugged her shoulders and turned toward him a disdainful back.  Her eyes were all for Bray.

“It’s very brief, the story,” she said hastily—­I thought almost apologetically.  “I had known the captain in Rangoon.  My husband was in business there—­an exporter of rice—­and Captain Fraser-Freer came often to our house.  We—­he was a charming man, the captain—­”

“Go on!” ordered Hughes.

“We fell desperately in love,” said the countess.  “When he returned to England, though supposedly on a furlough, he told me he would never return to Rangoon.  He expected a transfer to Egypt.  So it was arranged that I should desert my husband and follow on the next boat.  I did so—­believing in the captain—­thinking he really cared for me—­I gave up everything for him.  And then—­”

Her voice broke and she took out a handkerchief.  Again that odor of lilacs in the room.

“For a time I saw the captain often in London; and then I began to notice a change.  Back among his own kind, with the lonely days in India a mere memory—­he seemed no longer to—­to care for me.  Then—­last Thursday morning—­he called on me to tell me that he was through; that he would never see me again—­in fact, that he was to marry a girl of his own people who had been waiting—­”

The woman looked piteously about at us.

“I was desperate,” she pleaded.  “I had given up all that life held for me—­given it up for a man who now looked at me coldly and spoke of marrying another.  Can you wonder that I went in the evening to his rooms—­went to plead with him—­to beg, almost on my knees?  It was no use.  He was done with me—­he said that over and over.  Overwhelmed with blind rage and despair, I snatched up that knife from the table and plunged it into his heart.  At once I was filled with remorse.  I—­”

“One moment,” broke in Hughes.  “You may keep the details of your subsequent actions until later.  I should like to compliment you, Countess.  You tell it better each time.”

He came over and faced Bray.  I thought there was a distinct note of hostility in his voice.

“Checkmate, Inspector!” he said.  Bray made no reply.  He sat there staring up at the colonel, his face turned to stone.

“The scarab pin,” went on Hughes, “is not yet forthcoming.  We are tied for honors, my friend.  You have your confession, but I have one to match it.”

“All this is beyond me,” snapped Bray.

“A bit beyond me, too,” the colonel answered.  “Here are two people who wish us to believe that on the evening of Thursday last, at half after six of the clock, each sought out Captain Fraser-Freer in his rooms and murdered him.”

He walked to the window and then wheeled dramatically.

“The strangest part of it all is,” he added, “that at six-thirty o’clock last Thursday evening, at an obscure restaurant in Soho —­Frigacci’s—­these two people were having tea together!”