“No.  She was quite well on that evening, and did not anticipate death in any way—­least of all in a violent form.  Mr. Hale, Mr. Clancy and myself would have been with her till nearly midnight had I not quarrelled with Mr. Clancy.  As it was, Mr. Hale escorted me home about half-past nine, and I understand Mr. Clancy left about ten.  When Miss Loach was not playing whist or bridge she never cared about having anyone in her house.  She was rather a misanthrope.”

“Did she expect anyone that evening?”

“No.  At all events, she said nothing about expecting anyone.”

“Did she expect her nephew?”

“Mr. Basil Saxon?” said Mrs. Herne, looking surprised.  “Not that I am aware of.  She did not mention his name.  To be sure, they were on bad terms, and she had forbidden him the house.  No, I do not think she expected him.”

“Do you know the cause of the quarrel?”

“It had something to do with money.  I believe Miss Loach helped Mr. Saxon, who was rather extravagant, but she grew weary of his demands and refused to help him further.  He lost his temper and said things which forced her to order him out of the house.”

“Did he utter any threats?”

“Miss Loach never said that he did.  Mr. Jennings,” remarked the old lady, bending her brows, “is it possible you suspect that young man?”

“No.  I suspect no one at present.  But I am bound to make inquiries in every direction, and of course, if Mr. Saxon is of a passionate temper, he might wish to avenge himself for being forbidden the house.”

“He has a temper,” said Mrs. Herne, thoughtfully, “but I never saw it exhibited, though I met him once at Miss Loach’s.  She said he had a lot of bad blood in him, but that may have been because she hated her sister, Isabella Octagon.”

“Did she hate her?”

“Yes.  And I think she had cause.  Mrs. Octagon behaved very badly in connection with some romantic episode of the past.”

“I fancy I know about that,” said Jennings quickly, then added, “You are fond of perfumes?”

“What a strange question,” laughed Mrs. Herne.  “Yes, I am.  Do you like this scent.  It is called Hikui, and was given to me by a dear friend who received it from a Japanese attache.”

“From a friend or relative?”

Mrs. Herne frowned.  “What do you mean by that?”

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, nothing.  Only you are very like a lady called Senora Gredos.”

“Maraquito,” said Mrs. Herne unexpectedly.  “Of course I am.  Her father was my brother.”

“You are then her aunt?”

“Naturally.  But the fact is, I do not proclaim the relationship, as I do not approve of Maraquito’s gambling.  Of course the poor thing is confined to her couch and must have something to amuse her.  All the same, gambling on a large scale is against my principles.  But, if asked, I do not disown the relationship.  Now you understand why I am like Maraquito.”