“Ah!” said Juliet, turning pale.  “I remember now.  Basil mentioned that Cuthbert gambled, but he did not say where.”

“Mallow gambled a little at Maraquito’s, as did your brother.  The only difference is that Mallow could afford to lose and your brother could not.  Are you sure you never heard the name of Maraquito?”

“Quite sure,” said Juliet, meeting his gaze so calmly that he saw she was speaking the truth.  “Well, I understand how you got the photograph, but how did this woman get it?  I never heard my aunt mention her, either as Maraquito or as Senora Gredos.”

“Was your aunt open with you?”

“Perfectly open.  She had nothing in her life to conceal.”

“I am not so sure of that,” murmured the detective.  “Well, I cannot say how Maraquito became possessed of this photograph.”

Juliet shrugged her shoulders.  “In that case we may dismiss the matter,” she said, wiping her dry lips; “and I can’t see what the photograph has to do with this crime.”

“I can’t see it myself, but one never knows.”

“Do you accuse Mr. Mallow?”

“Supposing I did.  I know Mr. Mallow was near this place on the night of the murder and about the hour.”

Juliet leaned against the wall and turned away her face.  “It is not true.  What should bring him there?”

“He had business connected with the unfinished house at the back owned by Lord Caranby.  But I don’t suppose anyone saw him.”

“How do you know he was here then?” asked Juliet, gray and agitated.

“He confessed to me that he had been here.  But we can talk of that later—­”

Juliet interposed.  “One moment,” she cried, “do you accuse him?”

“As yet I accuse no one.  I must get more facts together.  By the way, Miss Saxon, will you tell the where you were on that night?”

“Certainly,” she replied in a muffled voice, “at the Marlow Theatre with my brother Basil.”

“Quite so.  But I don’t think the play was to your liking.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” said Jennings slowly, and watching the changing color of her face, “in your house you do not favor melodrama.  I wonder you went to see this one at the Marlow Theatre.”

“The writer is a friend of ours,” said Juliet defiantly.

“In that case, you might have paid him the compliment of remaining till the fall of the curtain.”

Juliet trembled violently and clung to the wall.  “Go on,” she said faintly.

“You had a box, as I learned from the business manager.  But shortly after eight your brother left the theatre:  you departed after nine.”

“I went to see an old friend in the neighborhood,” stammered Juliet.

“Ah, and was that neighborhood this one, by any chance?  In a hansom—­which I believe you drove away in—­one can reach this place from the Marlow Theatre in a quarter of an hour.”