“Because I loved Cuthbert.  I would have hanged her with pleasure,” said Maraquito vindictively.  “I hate her!”

“Then why do you wish to see her to-day?”

“To tell her that I give up your nephew.”

“That is not in accordance with the sentiments you expressed now.”

Maraquito made a gesture of indifference and made no reply.  Caranby now began to suspect that she intended harm to Juliet, and wondered if she had any weapon about her.  That dangling bag could easily carry a stout knife or a neat little revolver.  And Maraquito, as was evident from the deaths of Maxwell and Tyke, had no idea of the sacredness of life.  Caranby wished he had kept Cuthbert at hand to avert any catastrophe.  He was about to ring and order his servant not to bring Miss Saxon into the room when Maraquito roused herself from her reverie.

“Do you wish to know anything further?” she asked.

“No.  I think you have told me everything.”

She smiled scornfully.  “I have told you very little.  But for the rest of the information you must apply to Mrs. Octagon.”

“Ah!  Supposing I wish to learn who killed Emilia?”

“Mrs. Octagon can tell you!” said the woman significantly.

“Do you mean to say—­”

“I say nothing.  Emilia came to the factory and went out into the open air by another exit to see if anyone was about.  She never returned and Hale and I went in search of her.  We found her dead, and—­”

“I know all this.  Hale confessed it.  But he does not know who killed her.  Do you?”

“I can’t say for certain.  But I suspect Mrs. Octagon stabbed her.”

“But how could Mrs. Octagon get the knife?”

“Basil got that from Mallow’s room.  He gave it to his mother, and—­”

“This is all theory,” said Caranby angrily, “you have no grounds.”

“None at all,” replied Maraquito calmly, “but if anyone had a wish to kill my aunt, Mrs. Octagon had.  Emilia kept a tight hold over that woman, and made her do what she wished.”

“About the marriage?”

“Yes, and other things.  I have never been able to understand why Aunt Emilia took such a fancy to Cuthbert and that girl.  But she certainly wished to see them married.  She asked Juliet for a photograph of your nephew, and Juliet gave her one.  I took it, and that girl Susan Grant stole it from me.  It was strange that the photograph should have gone back to the cottage.  Aunt and I quarrelled over the marriage.  She knew I loved Cuthbert, but she would never help me to marry him.  It was all Juliet with her—­pah!  I detest the girl.  I could do nothing while Emilia lived.  She knew too much.  But after her death I made Mrs. Octagon stop the marriage.”

“I think Mrs. Octagon will consent now,” said Caranby, calmly.

“I doubt it.  She hates you too much.  However, she can, for all I care, Lord Caranby.  I have done with Cuthbert.”