“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.
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.
