Doris trembled.

“It was not suicide,” she declared, vehemently.  “I have always felt sure that it was not; but to-day I know.”

Her hand fell clenched on her breast and her eyes gleamed strangely.  Mr. Challoner was himself greatly startled.  What had happened —­what could have happened since yesterday that she should emphasise that now?

“I’ve not told any one,” she went on, as he stopped short in the road, in his anxiety to understand her.  “But I will tell you.  Only, not here, not with all these people driving past; most of whom know me.  Come to the house later—­this evening, after Mr. Brotherson’s room is closed for the night.  I have a little sitting-room on the other side of the hall where we can talk without being heard.  Would you object to doing that?  Am I asking too much of you?”

“No, not at all,” he assured her.  “Expect me at eight.  Will that be too early?”

“No, no.  Oh, how those people stared!  Let us hasten back or they may connect your name with what we want kept secret.”

He smiled at her fears, but gave in to her humour; he would see her soon again and possibly learn something which would amply repay him, both for his trouble and his patience.

But when evening came and she turned to face him in that little sitting-room where he had quietly followed her, he was conscious of a change in her manner which forbade these high hopes.  The gleam was gone from her eyes; the tremulous eagerness from her mobile and sensitive mouth.  She had been thinking in the hours which had passed, and had lost the confidence of that one impetuous moment.  Her greeting betrayed embarrassment and she hesitated painfully before she spoke.

“I don’t know what you will think of me,” she ventured at last, motioning to a chair but not sitting herself.  “You have had time to think over what I said and probably expect something real, —­something you could tell people.  But it isn’t like that.  It’s a feeling—­a belief.  I’m so sure—­”

“Sure of what, Miss Scott?”

She gave a glance at the door before stepping up nearer.  He had not taken the chair she preferred.

“Sure that I have seen the face of the man who murdered her.  It was in a dream,” she whisperingly completed, her great eyes misty with awe.

“A dream, Miss Scott?” He tried to hide his disappointment.

“Yes; I knew that it would sound foolish to you; it sounds foolish to me.  But listen, sir.  Listen to what I have to tell and then you can judge.  I was very much agitated yesterday.  I had to write a letter at Mr. Brotherson’s dictation—­a letter to her.  You can understand my horror and the effort I made to hide my emotion.  I was quite unnerved.  I could not sleep till morning, and then—­and then—­I saw—­I hope I can describe it.”

Grasping at a near-by chair, she leaned on it for support, closing her eyes to all but that inner vision.  A breathless moment followed, then she murmured in strained monotonous tones: