But his blood was up and he wrestled with the detective vigorously.  He was an excellent athlete, but Jennings was a west-country-man and knew all that was to be known about wrestling.  With a quick twist of his foot he tripped up his opponent, and in a minute Cuthbert was lying on his back with Jennings over him.  The two men breathed hard.  Cuthbert struggled to rise, but Jennings held him down until he was suddenly dragged away by Maraquito, who was watching the fight eagerly.  There she stood in the centre of the room which she had reached with a bound.

“I thought so,” said Jennings, releasing Mallow and rising quickly.

Maraquito threw a small knife at Cuthbert’s feet.  “Kill him—­ kill him!” she said with hysterical force.

“There is no need to,” said the detective, feeling his arms, which were rather sore.  “Mallow, I beg your pardon for having fought you, but I knew you would not lend yourself to a deception, and the only way in which I could force this lady to show that she was able to walk was by a feigned fight.”

“Then you don’t intend to arrest me?” said Mallow, rising and staring.

“Never had any idea of doing so,” rejoined Jennings coolly.  “I wished to learn the truth about Mrs. Herne.”

“Mrs. Herne!”

“Or Maraquito Gredos or Bathsheba Saul.  She has a variety of names, my dear fellow.  Which one do you prefer?” he asked, turning to the discovered woman.

Maraquito looked like the goddess of war.  Her eyes flashed and her face was red with anger.  Standing in a striking attitude, with one foot thrust forward, her active brain was searching for some means of escape.  “I don’t know what you mean by calling me these names!”

“I mean that you are to be arrested.  You are Mrs. Herne.  Your accident was merely a sham to avert suspicion.”

“Mrs. Herne is my aunt.”

“Pardon me, no.  The only aunt you ever had was Emilia Saul, who died in Caranby’s house.  In our interview at Hampstead you betrayed yourself when we talked of Mallow.  I had you watched.  You were seen to enter this house, and out of it Mrs. Herne never came.  Your servants do not know Mrs. Herne—­ only their invalid mistress.”

Maraquito, seeing her danger, panted with rage, and looked like a trapped animal.  “Even if this is true, which I deny,” she said in a voice tremulous with rage, “how dare you arrest me, and for what?”

“For setting that boy Gibber to poison the man who called himself Tyke.  The lad has left your service—­which means he is in hiding.”

“I know nothing about this,” said Maraquito, suddenly becoming cool.  “Do you mean to arrest me now?”

“I have the warrant and a couple of plain-dress detectives below.  You can’t escape.”

“I have no wish to escape,” she retorted, moving towards a door which led into an inner room.  “I can meet and dispose of this ridiculous charge.  The doctor told me that a sudden shock might bring back my strength.  And that it has done.  I am not Mrs. Herne—­I am not Bathsheba Saul.  I am Maraquito Gredos, a Spanish lady—­”