“So the servants have been talking, have they?” muttered Rolfe.

“They have and they haven’t.  But that’s beside the point.  What I want to say is that you’re on the wrong track in suspecting Mrs. Holymead, and I strongly advise you to drop your inquiries if you don’t want to get yourself into hot water.  She’s as innocent of the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks as Birchill is, but you cannot afford to make a false shot in the case of a lady of her social standing, as you did with a criminal like Birchill.”

At this rebuke Rolfe gave way to irritation.

“Look here, Mr. Crewe, I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” he said.  “It’s got nothing to do with you where I make inquiries.  I’ll have you remember that!  I don’t interfere with you, and I won’t have you interfering with me.”

“But I’m interfering only for your own good, man!  What do you suppose I’m doing it for?  I tell you you’re riding for a very bad fall in suspecting Mrs. Holymead and shadowing her.”

Crewe’s plain words were an echo of a secret fear which Rolfe had entertained from the time his suspicions were directed towards Mrs. Holymead.  But he was not going to allow Crewe to think he was alarmed.

“If I’m making inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, it’s because I have ample justification for doing so,” he said stiffly.

“And I tell you that you have not.”

“Prove it!” exclaimed Rolfe defiantly.

Crewe produced from his pocket a revolver and a lady’s handkerchief, and handed them to Rolfe without speaking.

Rolfe’s embarrassment was almost equal to his astonishment as he examined the articles.  In the handkerchief with its missing corner, he speedily recognised something for which he had searched in vain.  He had never confided to Crewe the discovery of the missing corner in the dead man’s hand, and therefore the production of the handkerchief by Crewe considerably embarrassed him.  He longed to ask Crewe how he had obtained possession of the handkerchief, but he could not trust his voice to frame the question without betraying his feelings, so he picked up the revolver and examined it closely.  Then he put it down and again gave his attention to the handkerchief, bending his head over it so that Crewe should not see his face.

“You do not seem very astonished at my finds, Rolfe,” said Crewe quizzically.  “Perhaps you’ve seen these articles before?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Rolfe, still avoiding his visitor’s eye.

“Well, the torn handkerchief is not exactly new to you,” said Crewe.  “You’ve got the missing part; you found it in Sir Horace’s hand after he was murdered.”

“You’re too clever for me, and that’s the simple truth, Mr. Crewe,” said Rolfe, in a mortified tone.  “I did find a small piece of a lady’s handkerchief in his hand, and here it is.”  He produced his pocket-book and took out the piece.  “How you found out I had it, is more than I know.”