She picked up the tray again, and brought it to my bedside.

“Oh!” she said; “I shouldn’t build too much upon our hospitality if I were you.”

I took the tray from her hands.  “I would build upon yours to any extent,” I said; “but I am under no illusion whatever about Dr. McMurtrie’s disinterestedness.  He and your father—­it is your father, isn’t it?—­are coming up to explain matters as soon as I have had something to eat.”

She stood silent for a moment, her brows knitted in a frown.

“They mean you no harm,” she said at last, “as long as you will do what they want.”  Then she paused.  “Did you murder that man Marks?” she asked abruptly.

I swallowed down my first mouthful of fish.  “No,” I said; “I only knocked him about a bit.  He wasn’t worth murdering.”

She stared at me as if she was trying to read my thoughts.

“Is that true?” she said.

“Well,” I replied, “he was alive enough when I left him, judging from his language.”

“Then why did your partner—­Mr. Marwood—­why did he say that you had done it?”

“That,” I said softly, “is a little question which George and I have got to discuss together some day.”

She walked to the door and then turned.

“If a man I had trusted and worked with behaved like that to me,” she said slowly, “I should kill him.”

I nodded my approval of the sentiment.  “I daresay it will come to that,” I said; “the only thing is one gets rather tired of being sentenced to death.”

She gave me another long, curious glance out of those dark brown eyes of hers, and then going out, closed the door behind her.

For an exceedingly busy and agreeable quarter of an hour I occupied myself with the contents of the tray.  There was some very nicely grilled whiting, a really fresh boiled egg, a jar of honey, and a large plate of brown bread and butter cut in sturdy slices.  Best of all, on the edge of the tray were a couple of McMurtrie’s cigarettes.  Whether he or Sonia was responsible for this last attention I could not say.  I hoped it was Sonia:  somehow or other I did not want to be too much indebted to Dr. McMurtrie.

I finished my meal—­finished it in the most complete sense of the phrase—­and then, putting down my tray on the floor, reverently lighted up.  I found that my first essay in smoking on the previous evening had in no way dulled the freshness of my enjoyment, and for a few minutes I was content to lie there pleasantly indifferent to everything except the flavour of the tobacco.

Then my mind began to work.  Sonia’s questions had once again started a train of thought which ever since the trial had been running through my brain with maddening persistence.  If I had not killed Marks, who had?  How often had I asked myself that during the past three years, and how often had I abandoned the problem in utter weariness!  Sometimes, indeed, I had been almost tempted to think the jury