“Yes,” said Cuthbert, a new fire in his eyes, and drawing himself up firmly.  “I’ll get at the truth somehow, and Juliet will not leave that Academy until I learn it.  I have had more than enough of this kind of thing.  But how did the knife leave my rooms?”

“Who has called to see you within the last month?”

“Oh, dozens of people.”

“Has Mrs. Octagon?”

“No.  She never liked me enough to pay me a visit.  But Basil—­”

“Ha!” cried Jennings, slapping his knee.  “I believe Basil may have taken it.  He is working with his mother to stop the marriage, and—­”

“Stop—­stop!” interposed Mallow, coloring, “you are accusing Juliet’s mother and brother of being accomplices to a crime.  Basil is a fool and Mrs. Octagon is not a nice woman, but I don’t think either would kill a woman in cold blood.”

Jennings had his own opinion about this.  Mrs. Octagon—­as was proved by her early history—­was capable of doing much, when number one was in question, and Basil was an irresponsible, hysterical fool.  In a moment of rage he might have—­“But no,” said Jennings, breaking off this train of thought.  “I can’t see the truth.  Miss Saxon knows it.  You must ask her.  Be careful, for your life may depend upon it.”

“Bunkum!” said Mallow roughly, “I am not afraid.”

“Then you ought to be,” said Jennings quickly, “you were down at Rose Cottage on that night and the knife is yours.  Certainly you have no motive, but Mrs. Octagon and Maraquito will soon find one, if you don’t fall in with their wishes.  However, you know what you have to do,” and Jennings rose to take his leave, first slipping the knife into his pocket.

“Wait a bit,” said Cuthbert, rising.  “I’ll do what you say.  Just drop me a line when the meeting is to be.  But I want to tell you—­At the Metropolitan Hotel at Brighton I met with my bank manager.”

“What of that?”

“He happens to be the manager of the bank where Miss Loach kept her money and where Juliet keeps it now.”

“Well,” said Jennings, becoming suddenly attentive.

“He didn’t tell secrets,” went on Mallow, “but we got talking of Basil, and the manager hinted that Basil had had a lucky escape.”

“From what?”

“I can’t say.  The manager—­French, his name is—­refused to speak more openly, and of course he couldn’t.  But if Miss Loach had not died, Basil would have got into trouble.  He didn’t put the matter exactly in these words, but I gathered as much.”

“Humph!” said Jennings, his eyes on the carpet, “that supplies a motive for Basil killing the old woman.”

“Nonsense, Basil would not kill anything.  He is a coward.”

“When a rat is in the corner it fights,” said the detective significantly.  “Basil may have been between the devil, represented by Miss Loach, and the deep sea, which we may call Hale.  He may have—­”