“The matter is of no great importance,” Miss Hyslop declared, “in any case I should not discuss it before these two gentlemen.”

“Don’t go for a moment, please,” Sir Timothy begged, as she showed signs of departure.  “Listen.  I want to make a suggestion to you.  There is an impression abroad that I was interested in the two young men, Victor Bidlake and Fairfax, and that I knew something of their quarrel.  You were an intimate friend of young Bidlake’s and presumably in his confidence.  It occurs to me, therefore, that Mr. Shopland might very well have visited you in search of information, linking me up with that unfortunate affair.  Hence your little note to me.”

Miss Hyslop rose to her feet.  She had the appearance of being very angry indeed.

“Do you mean to insinuate—­” she began.

“Madam, I insinuate nothing,” Sir Timothy interrupted sternly.  “I only desire to suggest this.  You are a young lady whose manner of living, I gather, is to a certain extent precarious.  It must have seemed to you a likelier source of profit to withhold any information you might have to give at the solicitation of a rich man, than to give it free gratis and for nothing to a detective.  Now am I right?”

Miss Hyslop turned towards the door.  She had the air of a person who had been entirely misunderstood.

“I wrote you out of kindness, Sir Timothy,” she said in an aggrieved manner.  “I shall have nothing more to say on the matter—­to you, at any rate.”

Sir Timothy sighed.

“You see,” he said, turning to the others, “I have lost my chance of conciliating a witness.  My cheque-book remains locked up and she has gone over to your side.”

She turned around suddenly.

“You know that you made Bobby Fairfax kill Victor!” she almost shouted.

Sir Timothy smiled in triumph.

“My dear young lady,” he begged, “let us now be friends again.  I desired to know your trump card.  For that reason I fear that I have been a little brutal.  Now please don’t hurry away.  You have shot your bolt.  Already Mr. Shopland is turning the thing over in his mind.  Was I lurking outside that night, Mr. Shopland, to guide that young man’s flabby arm?  He scarcely seemed man enough for a murderer, did he, when he sat quaking on that stool in Soto’s Bar while Mr. Ledsam tortured him?  I beg you again not to hurry, Miss Hyslop.  At any rate wait while my servants fetch you a taxi.  It was clouding over when I came in.  We may even have a thunderstorm.”

“I want to get out of this house,” Daisy Hyslop declared.  “I think you are all horrible.  Mr. Ledsam did behave like a gentleman when he came to see me, and Mr. Shopland asked questions civilly.  But you—­” she added, turning round to Sir Timothy.