“About the murder at Rose Cottage.”

“But, my dear fellow, I know nothing about it.”

“You knew Miss Loach?”

“Yes.  I saw her once or twice.  But I did not like her.”

“She is the aunt of the young lady you are engaged to marry?”

Mallow drew himself up stiffly.  “As a matter of fact she is,” he said with marked coldness.  “But I don’t see—­”

“You will in a minute,” said Jennings briskly.  “Pardon me, but are you in love with another woman?”

Mallow grew red.  “What the devil do you mean by coming here to ask me such a question?” he demanded.

“Gently, Mallow, I am your friend, and you may need one.”

“What do you mean.  Do you accuse me of—­”

“I accuse you of nothing,” said Jennings quickly, “but I ask you, why did you give this photograph, with an inscription, to the servant of the murdered woman.”

“I recognize my photograph, but the servant—­”

“Susan Grant.  The picture was found in her possession.  She refuses to speak,” here the detective spoke lower, “in case you get into trouble with the police.”

CHAPTER VII

THE DETECTIVE

The two men looked at one another, Jennings searchingly, and Cuthbert with a look of mingled amazement and indignation.  They were rather like in looks, both being tall, slim and fair-haired.  But Mallow wore a mustache, whereas the detective, possibly for the sake of disguising himself on occasions, was clean-shaven.  But although Jennings’ profession was scarcely that of a gentleman, he looked well-bred, and was dressed with the same quiet taste and refinement as characterized Mallow.  The public-school stamp was on both, and they might have been a couple of young men about town discussing sport rather than an officer of the law and a man who (it seemed from Jennings’ hints) was suspected of complicity in a crime.

“Do you mean this for a jest?” said Cuthbert at length.

“I never jest on matters connected with my profession, Mallow.  It is too serious a one.”

“Naturally.  It so often involves the issues of life and death.”

“In this case I hope it does not,” said Jennings, significantly.

Cuthbert, who was recovering his composure, sat down with a shrug.  “I assure you, you have found a mare’s nest this time.  Whatever my follies may have been, I am not a criminal.”

“I never thought you were,” rejoined the other, also taking a seat, “but you may have become involved with people who are criminals.”

“I dare say half of those one meets in society are worthy of jail, did one know what is done under the rose,” returned Cuthbert; “by the way, how did you come so opportunely?”

“I knew you had gone out of town, as I came a few days ago to see you about this matter, and inquired.  Your servant said you were in Devonshire—­”