“Then I have made a big mistake,” apologised the ever-courteous detective.  “Will you pardon me?  It would have settled a very serious question if it could be found that the object thus picked up was the weapon which killed Miss Challoner.  That is my excuse for the trouble I have given you.”

He was not looking at her; he was looking at her hand which rested on the table before which he himself stood.  Did the fingers tighten a little and dig into the palm they concealed?  He thought so, and was very slow in turning limpingly about towards the door.  Meanwhile, would she speak?  No.  The silence was so marked, he felt it an excuse for stealing another glance in her direction.  She was not looking his way but at a door in the partition wall on her right; and the look was one very akin to anxious fear.  The next moment he understood it.  The door burst open, and a young girl bounded into the room, with the merry cry: 

“All ready, mother.  I’m glad we are going to the Clarendon.  I hate hotels where people die almost before your eyes.”

What the mother said at this outburst is immaterial.  What the detective did is not.  Keeping on his way, he reached the door, but not to open it wider; rather to close it softly but with unmistakable decision.  The cloak which enveloped the girl was red, and full enough to be called voluminous.

“Who is this?” demanded the girl, her indignant glances flashing from one to the other.

“I don’t know,” faltered the mother in very evident distress.  “He says he has a right to ask us questions and he has been asking questions about—­about—­”

“Not about me,” laughed the girl, with a toss of her head Mr. Gryce would have corrected in one of his grandchildren.  “He can have nothing to say about me.”  And she began to move about the room in an aimless, half-insolent way.

Mr. Gryce stared hard at the few remaining belongings of the two women, lying in a heap on the table, and half musingly, half deprecatingly, remarked: 

“The person who stooped wore a long red cloak.  Probably you preceded your daughter, Mrs. Watkins.”

The lady thus brought to the point made a quick gesture towards the girl who suddenly stood still, and, with a rising colour in her cheeks, answered, with some show of resolution on her own part: 

“You say your name is Gryce and that you have a right to address me thus pointedly on a subject which you evidently regard as serious.  That is not exact enough for me.  Who are you, sir?  What is your business?”

“I think you have guessed it.  I am a detective from Headquarters.  What I want of you I have already stated.  Perhaps this young lady can tell me what you cannot.  I shall be pleased if this is so.”

“Caroline”—­Then the mother broke down.  “Show the gentleman what you picked up from the lobby floor last night.”

The girl laughed again, loudly and with evident bravado, before she threw the cloak back and showed what she had evidently been holding in her hand from the first, a sharp-pointed, gold-handled paper-cutter.