“I am a friend of Mallow’s,” said the detective.

“I have never met you?”

“Yet I have been to your house, Miss Saxon.  Perhaps my name, Miles Jennings, may—­”

The girl started with a cry.  “You are a detective!” she gasped.

CHAPTER XIV

MRS. OCTAGON EXPLAINS

The young girl leaned against the wall, white, and with closed eyes.  Alarmed by her appearance, Jennings would have assisted her, but she waved him off and staggered down the stairs.  By a powerful effort she managed to subdue her feelings, and when in the hall turned to him with a sickly smile.  “I am glad to see you,” she said.  “Mr. Mallow has often spoken to you of me.  You are his friend, I know.”

“His best friend, in spite of the difference in our position.”

“Oh,” Juliet waved that objection aside, “I know you are a gentleman and took up this work merely as a hobby.”

“I fear not,” smiled Jennings.  “To make money.”

“Not in a very pleasant way.  However, as you are Mr. Mallow’s friend, I am glad you have this case in hand,” she fixed her eyes on the detective.  “Have you discovered anything?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing much,” replied Jennings, who rapidly decided to say nothing about his discovery of the knife.  “I fear the truth will never be found out, Miss Saxon.  I suppose you have no idea?”

“I,” she said, coloring, “what put such a thing into your head?  I am absolutely ignorant of the truth.  Did you come to ask me about—­”

“That amongst other things,” interrupted Jennings, seeing Mrs. Pill’s bulky figure at the door.  “Can we not talk in some quieter place?”

“Come downstairs,” said Juliet, moving, “but the rooms are unfurnished as Mrs. Pill is cleaning them.  The house is quiet enough.”

“So I see,” said the detective, following his companion down to the basement, “only yourself and Mrs. Pill.”

“And my mother,” she answered.  “We came here to see about some business connected with the letting of the cottage.  My mother is lying down in the old part of the house.  Do you wish to see her?”

“No.  I wish to see you.”

By this time they had entered the sitting-room in which the crime had been committed.  The carpets were up, the furniture had been removed, the walls were bare.  Jennings could have had no better opportunity of seeking for any secret entrance, the existence of which he suspected by reason of the untimely sounding of the bell.  But everything seemed to be in order.  The floor was of oak, and there was—­strangely enough—­no hearth-stone.  The French windows opened into the conservatory, now denuded of its flowers, and stepping into this Jennings found that the glass roof was entirely closed, save for a space for ventilation.  The assassin could not have entered or escaped in that way, and there was no exit from the room save by the door.