“Then why do you wish me to hold my tongue?”

“There is nothing for you to hold your tongue about,” she answered evasively.  “You know nothing.”

Cuthbert caught her hands and looked into her troubled eyes.  “Do you, Juliet—­do you?  Put an end to this mystery and speak out.”

She broke from him and fled.  “No,” she cried, “for your sake I keep silent.  For your own sake stop the action of the detective.”

CHAPTER IX

ANOTHER MYSTERY

When Jennings arrived that evening according to appointment, he found Mallow in a state of desperation.  Juliet’s conduct perplexed the young man to such an extent that he felt as though on the point of losing his reason.  He was quite delighted when he saw Jennings and thus had someone with a clear head in whom to confide.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jennings, who at once saw that something was wrong from Cuthbert’s anxious face.

“Nothing, save that I am being driven out of my senses.  I am glad you have come, Jennings.  Things are getting more mysterious every day.  I am determined to get to the bottom of this murder case if only for my own peace of mind.  I am with you heart and soul.  I have the detective fever with a vengeance.  You can count on my assistance in every way.”

“All right, my dear chap,” said the other soothingly, “sit down and let us have a quiet talk before this girl arrives.”

“Susan Grant.  I saw her to-day.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No.  I only guessed that she was the girl you talked about from your description and from the fact that she entered Rose Cottage.”

“Ah,” said Jennings, taking a seat, “so you have been down there?”

“Yes.  I’ll tell you all about it.  I don’t know if I’m sane or insane, Jennings.  When does this girl arrive?”

The detective glanced at his watch.  “At half-past eight.  She’ll be here in half an hour.  Go on.  What’s up?”

“Read this,” said Cuthbert, and passed along the note from Juliet.  “I received that immediately after you went the other night.”

Jennings read the note with a thoughtful look, then laid it aside and stared at his friend.  “It is strange that she should write in that way,” said he.  “I should have thought she would wish to learn who killed her aunt.  What does she mean?”

“I can’t tell you.  I met her to-day,” and Cuthbert gave details of his visit to Rexton and the interview with Juliet.  “Now what does she mean,” he added in his turn, “talking as though I had something to do with the matter?”

“Someone’s been poisoning her mind.  That brother of hers, perhaps.”

“What do you know of him?” asked Cuthbert quickly.

“Nothing good.  He’s an hysterical idiot.  Gambles a lot and falls into rages when he loses.  At times I don’t think he’s responsible for his actions.”