Having retired to her bedroom and divested herself of the deceitful peignoir, Pauline made her way, with all the precautions of secrecy, downstairs again, and so to the door which gave on the avenue. Carpentaria was not in view when she timorously put her head out of the door, and she was in a mind to rush back to her sister in order to confide in her absolutely, and to demand in return her entire confidence. She allowed herself to suspect for a brief instant that, after all, Carpentaria had not been behaving openly with her; but just then the musician arrived—he had evidently been watching the other side of the house.

“You were right,” she whispered, before he had time to ask a question.

“Your sister denies that she has been out?”

Pauline nodded.

“Does this help us?” she inquired, as it were, bitterly. “Are we any better off, now that I have lied to Rosie, and forced Rosie to lie to me?”

“I think so,” he said.

“I don’t,” Pauline retorted. “And I have passed the most dreadful five minutes of all my life.”

She seemed to be desolated, to be filled with grief.

“I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” he murmured.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “You have been quite right. We find ourselves in the centre of a mystery, and I have no excuse for being sentimental. My trust in Rosie remains what it always was. Still, facts are facts, and I am ready to do whatever you instruct me to do.”

“Well,” he said, “your sister must have had some reason for insisting on watching Mrs. Ilam out of her turn; and that reason is not connected with the little matter of the boat. If she had merely wished to go unobserved to the boat she would have gone to bed as usual and said nothing, wouldn’t she?”

Pauline nodded.

“It is obvious, therefore, that there is something else to be done, or to occur—probably in Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom. For if it is not to happen in Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom, why should your sister have voluntarily tied herself up there?”

“But what could possibly happen in Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom?” demanded Pauline, with a nervous start of apprehension.

“How do I know?” Carpentaria replied. “I can only point to certain indications, which lead to certain conclusions. You will oblige me by watching, Miss Dartmouth.”

“Where?”

“The landing and the stairs of your house. Is there a view of the stairs from your room?”

“Yes,” said Pauline.

“Then you can watch from there. Do not burn a light.”

“And if anything strange does occur?”

“Go to your balcony, and tie a white handkerchief to the railings.”

“And you?” queried Pauline.

At that moment there was the sound of a window opening in Carpentaria’s bungalow across the avenue, and a voice called plaintively:

“Carlos, is that you?”

“It is I,” he answered, as low as he could.

“Go to her. Comfort her,” Pauline enjoined him.

“I am coming to you,” he obediently called in the direction of the window.

Both of them could see the vague figure of Juliette, framed in the window.

“Poor thing!” murmured Pauline.

“Afterwards,” said Carpentaria hurriedly, “I shall come out again and watch the outside of your house. With you inside and me outside, it will be very difficult for anything peculiar to occur without our knowledge.”

And he left her, impressed by her common sense and her self-control, and withal her utter womanliness.

The hall of his own house was dark, and all the rooms of the ground-floor deserted. He mounted to the upper story. Juliette, hearing his footsteps, had come to the door of the study, from whose window she had hailed him, and she stared at him with a fixed and almost stony gaze as he approached. Her figure was silhouetted against the electric light in the study.

“Turn that light out instantly,” he said, with involuntary sternness.

She did not move, and, obsessed by the importance of giving to anyone who might be spying the impression that all the occupants of the house had retired for the night, he pushed past her and turned off the switch.

“Oh, Carlos,” Juliette sighed, “how cruel you are?”

He now saw her indistinctly in the deep gloom of the chamber, and her form seemed pathetic to him, and her sad, despairing voice even more pathetic. He went up to her impulsively and took her hand.

“Juliette,” he said, “can you believe it of me?”

“Miss Dartmouth has spoken to you?” she asked, a glimmer of hope in her tone.

“Yes,” he said. “Can you believe that I have—have caused anything to be done to Ilam?”

“Have you not?” she demanded eagerly.

And he told her what he had previously told Pauline.

She thanked him with an affectionate kiss.

“Carlos,” she said, and the words fell in a little torrent from her mouth, “I told you a falsehood this morning. I acted a part. He was in my sitting-room all the time. Can you forgive me?”

“I was sure of it,” said Carpentaria calmly, “and I can forgive you,” he added.

“You do not know what it is to love,” she said. “You have never cared for anyone—in that way. I hadn’t—until I met——”

“Who says I don’t know what it is to love!” he stopped her. “Perhaps I am learning. But tell me, when did you last see Ilam? Have you seen him since this morning?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Where?”

“At his offices this evening.”

“He gave no hint that he was in any danger?”

“No immediate danger. Oh, Carlos, he is not what you think him to be. He is an honest man, and I am so sorry for him, and I love him. Where is he? What has happened to him?”

“I can’t tell you now,” was Carpentaria’s reply, “but before morning we shall know more, or I am mistaken.”

“It is for the crimes of others that he is suffering,” said Juliette.

“He told you so?”

“No, but I guess; I am sure. I know all his faults—all of them. I do not hide one of them from myself. Why should I, since he loves me and I love him?”

“My child,” said Carpentaria abruptly, “you might have trusted me more.”

“I should have trusted you absolutely,” answered Juliette, “but he is afraid of you. He would not let me. I could not disobey him. Sometime, somehow, you must have said something to frighten him and, though he is so big and strong, he is timid; he has timid eyes. It was because of his eyes that I first began to like him. Carlos, what are you going to do?”

“I am going to watch,” was the response.

“A man came to the back-door not long since, and asked whether you were at home.”

“A man came to the back-door?” repeated Carpentaria sharply, every nerve suddenly on the strain. “Who was it? What did you say to him?”

“At first I thought it was one of the night-staff, and then the man’s face made me suspicious; I imagined it might be a thief—you know what a state I am in, Carlos—and so I told him you had just gone to bed, and I shut the door in his face. I didn’t want him to think there were only women in the house. But, of course, it couldn’t have been a burglar—here——”

“That is the wisest thing you have done this day, Juliette,” Carpentaria remarked; and then he questioned her as to the appearance of the mysterious inquirer.

“Are you going to leave me?” cried Juliette, when Carpentaria picked up his hat, which had fallen from a chair to the floor.

“Yes,” he said; “you must try to rest.”

And then they were both startled by a strange noise on the window-pane. They listened. The noise was repeated.

“Is it rain?” asked Juliette.

“No,” said Carpentaria, “it’s gravel.”

He went out on to the balcony. A form was discernible in the avenue below.

“Is that you, Miss Dartmouth?” he whispered.

“Yes,” came the reply. “I——”

“Hush!” he warned her. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

With a brief explanation to Juliette, he hastened downstairs and let himself out of the house. Pauline was already standing at the door.

“Anything happened?” he questioned her.

“Nothing has happened,” said Pauline, “but there is something extremely curious, all the same, in our house. It is a most singular thing that the housemaid, who never forgets anything, forgot just to-night to leave some milk in my room—a thing which I had specially reminded her to remember, so I rang the bell for her. There is a bell that communicates direct with her room—it used to be in Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom, but we have had it changed—there was no answer. I rang again. No answer. You know, I’m the sort of person that can’t stand that sort of thing from servants, so I went upstairs to her. She was not in her room. There are two beds in that room, the second one for the cook. Both beds were empty; they had neither of them been slept in. I went into the rooms of the other servants. They are all empty. Rosie and I and Mrs. Ilam are alone in the house.”

Carpentaria paused.

“Did you tell your sister?”

“No, I came straight here.”

“That was very discreet of you,” said Carpentaria.

“I am beginning to get frightened,” Pauline added. “What can it mean? All the servants gone——”