idle and morbid curiosity I had accused her of at the time. How gallantly she had played her part that day, inwardly racked with fear and trepidation as she must have been. Poor little soul, bearing the burden of a moment’s impetuous action.
“Why did you take the dagger?” I asked presently.
She replied as simply as a child:
“I was afraid there might be finger-marks on it.”
“But didn’t you remember that you had worn gloves?”
She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:
“Are you going to give me up to—to the Police?”
“Good God! no.”
Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little quiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:
“Why not?”
It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love—and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:
“Because I love you, Cinderella.”
She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken voice:
“You can’t—you can’t—not if you knew—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely, and asked:
“What do you know, then?”
“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house—” I paused.
“Go on—what next?”
“I don’t know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable, and walked aimlessly—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there, and you saw a man on the golf links—”
