There are moments when the human brain refuses to receive communication from its peripheries, and the rapidity of thought becomes so slow that it can be measured by minutes. The stage of consciousness on which life's drama is solitarily played for every human being is too circumscribed to expand all at once for the reception of a strange and unexpected image. Such moments follow in, the wake of a great shock, like a black curtain descending on a lighted scene. When the curtain begins to rise again it is on a darkened stage, on which the objects are seen dimly at first, then clearer as returning intelligence, working slowly for the accommodation of the new setting, places the fresh impression in order with the throng of previously existing ideas.

Such a moment seemed to have come to Hazel Rath as she stood looking at Merrington, who sat in an easy chair on the other side of the table confronting her with the tangible perception of his massive presence, reinforced by the weight of an authority which, if not so perceptible, was sufficiently apparent in the stolid blue back of a policeman on duty outside the glass door, and in the barred windows of the little room to which she had been brought to receive the news which had just been conveyed to her. But she gave no sign of having heard, or, at least, understood the import of Merrington's relation. Her dark eyes wandered around the little office, and slowly returned to the face of the big man who was watching her so closely. Her look, which at first had been one of utter bewilderment, now revealed a trace of incredulity which suggested a returning power for the assimilation of ideas. But she did not speak.

"Have you nothing to say?" Merrington demanded. He had been a silent listener to many criminal confessions in his time, but in the unusual reversion of roles he was becoming unreasonably angry with the girl for not repaying his confidence with her own story.

His loud hectoring voice startled her, and seemed to accelerate the mechanism of her mind into the association of her surroundings with her position.

"Why did you bring me here to torture me?" she cried, with a sudden rush of shrill utterance which was, in its way, almost as pitiful and surprising as her previous silence. "Oh, why cannot you leave me alone?"

She threw her arms out wildly, then, as if realizing the futility of gesture, dropped them helplessly to her sides. There was something in the action which suggested a bird trying to stretch its wings in a cramped cage. Her quivering lips, tense facial muscles, and strained yet restless bearing plainly revealed an unbalanced temperament, bending beneath the weight of a burden too heavy and sustained. As an experienced police official, Merrington was well versed in the little signs which indicate the breaking point of imprisonment in those unused to it. He saw that Hazel Rath had reached a state in which kindness and consideration, but no other means, might induce her to tell all she knew.

"Come now, my good girl," he said in a gentle pleasant voice which would have astonished Caldew beyond measure if he had heard it, "nobody wants to torture you. On the contrary, I have come down from London purposely to help you."

He paused for a moment in order to allow this remark to sink into her mind and then went on:

"I do not think that you quite understood what I have been trying to tell you. I will tell you again, and I wish you to listen to me for your own sake."

He glanced at her again, and satisfied that he had now gained her attention, repeated the news he had endeavoured to tell her previously. The story, which he embellished with additional details as he went on, was a practical demonstration of the trick of conveying a false impression without telling an actual untruth. Merrington's sole aim was to convince Hazel that further silence on her part was useless, so, to that end, he used the incident of his visit to Nepcote's flat in a way to suggest that Nepcote's admission of the ownership of the revolver amounted to an admission of his own complicity in the murder.

It was an adroit narration—Merrington conceded that much to himself, not without some pride in his own creation—but he was not prepared for its immediate and overmastering effect on the girl. She listened to him with an intensity of interest which was in the strangest contrast with her former inattention and indifference. When Merrington reached the point of his revelations by telling her about the missing necklace in order to assure her that the police were aware that Nepcote had gained more from the commission of the crime than she had, she surprised him by springing to her feet, her eyes blazing with excitement.

"I knew it would be proved that I am innocent," she exclaimed. "Now I can tell you all I know."

"It is the very best course you can pursue," responded Merrington with emphasis.

"I know it—I see it now! Oh, I have been very foolish. But I—" A burst of hysterical tears choked further utterance.

Merrington waited patiently until she recovered herself. He was troubled by no qualms of gentlemanly etiquette at watching the distress of the distraught girl sobbing wildly at the little table between them. There is a wide difference between pampered beauty in distress and a female prisoner in self-abasement. So he waited composedly enough until she lifted her head and regarded him with dark wistful eyes through a glitter of tears.

"You had better tell me all," he said.

"Yes, I will tell you everything now," she quickly replied.

"Before you do so it is my duty to warn you that any statement you make may be used in evidence against you at your trial," Merrington said, with a swift resumption of his official manner. "At the same time, I think you will be acting in your own interest by keeping nothing back."

"I quite understand. But it is such a strange story that I hardly know how to begin."

"Tell me everything from the first. That will be the best way."

"That night I went up to Mrs. Heredith's room just to see her," she commenced, almost in a whisper. "My mother had told me earlier in the evening that she was alone in her room suffering from a headache. I thought I would take the opportunity while the others were at dinner to go up to her room and ask her if she wanted anything. So I left my mother's room and walked quietly down the hall to the left wing. There was nobody about. All the guests were at dinner, and the servants were busy in the kitchen and the dining-room.

"When I got upstairs I noticed that Mrs. Heredith's door was open a little, and I saw that there was no light in the room. I thought that strange until I remembered she had been suffering from a bad headache, and probably had turned off the light to rest her head. I did not knock because I thought she might be asleep. I was just going to turn away when I heard a sound like a sob within the room. I listened, and heard it again. I hardly knew what to do at first, but the thought came to me that perhaps Mrs. Heredith was worse, and needed someone. So I pushed open the door and went in.

"I know the moat-house well, so I was aware that the switch of the electric light was by the side of the fireplace, near the head of the bed, and not close to the door, as in the other rooms. To turn on the light I had to walk across the room. It was very dark, and I walked cautiously for fear of stumbling and alarming Mrs. Heredith. Twice I stopped to listen, and once I heard a sound like somebody whispering. I was dreadfully nervous because I didn't know whether I was doing right or wrong by going into Mrs. Heredith's room like that, but something seemed to urge me on.

"I must have mistaken my direction in the dark, for I couldn't find the electric switch. I kept running my hand along the wall in search of it, and while I was doing this, somebody caught me suddenly by the throat.

"All the blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice, and I screamed loudly. Immediately I screamed the hand let go, but I was too frightened to move. It was so silent in the room then, that I could hear my own heart beating, but as I stood there by the wall not daring to move I thought I heard a rustling sound by the window. My hands kept wandering over the wall behind me, trying to find the switch of the light. Then, suddenly, there was a dreadful sound—the report of a gun. It seemed to fill the room with echoes, which rolled to the window and back again. As the sound of the report died away, my fingers touched the switch and I turned on the light.

"I was standing close to the head of the bed, and the first thing I noticed was something glittering on the carpet at my feet. I stooped and picked it up. It was a revolver. Then my eyes turned to the bed, and I saw poor Mrs. Heredith. She was lying quite still with blood on her mouth. I could see that she was still alive, because her eyes looked at me. At that terrible sight I forgot everything except that she was in agony. I was bending over her wiping her mouth when I caught the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. It flashed across my mind that I must not be found there, in a room where I had no right to be, holding in my hand a revolver which had just been discharged. I switched off the light and ran out of the room. The light from the landing outside guided me to the door. I had just time to get outside and slip behind the velvet curtains when some of the gentlemen appeared on the landing.

"I stayed there hidden for some time, too frightened to move, and expecting every moment to be discovered. I could hear them moving about searching, and I thought that somebody would draw aside the curtains and see me hiding underneath. But nobody came near me. I heard them go into Mrs. Heredith's room, and Mr. Musard started talking. The corridor was silent, and it seemed to me that I had a chance of escaping downstairs if the staircase was clear. I crept across to the balusters, still keeping under the cover of the curtains, and looked over. I could see nobody in the hall downstairs. I slipped the revolver into my dress and ran downstairs as quickly as I could. I got to the hall without meeting anyone, and then I knew that I was safe. But just as I turned into the passage leading to my mother's rooms I heard the dining-room door open. I looked back and saw Tufnell come out and go upstairs, but he did not see me. Then I reached my mother's rooms."

She was silent so long that Merrington thought she had finished her story. "And what about your brooch—the brooch which you dropped in the room. When did you get that again?"

"I did not miss it until some time after I had returned downstairs. I wondered at first where I had dropped it. I then remembered the hand on my throat, which must have unloosened the brooch and caused it to fall. I knew it was necessary for me to recover it so it would not be known that I had been in the room. The house was very quiet then, and the hall was empty, though I could hear the murmur of voices in the library, so I walked along the hall and ran upstairs. The door of the bedroom was partly open, and by the light within I could see that the room was empty—except for her. I went into the room. The first thing I saw was my little brooch shining on the carpet, close by the bedside, near where I had been standing when the hand clutched at my throat. I picked it up and ran downstairs."

"Is that the whole of your story?"

She considered for a moment. "Yes, I think that I have told you everything."

"What took you to Mrs. Heredith's room in the first place?"

"I—I wanted to see her."

"For what purpose? If you want me to help you, you had better be frank."

"I wished to see the girl whom Mr. Phil had married." She brought out the answer hesitatingly, but the colour which flooded her thin white cheeks showed that she was aware of the implication of the admission.

But Merrington was impervious to the finer feelings of the heart. He disbelieved her story from beginning to end, and was of the opinion that she was trying to hoax him with a concoction as crude as the vain imaginings of melodrama or the cinema. It was more with the intention of trapping her into a contradiction than of eliciting anything of importance that he continued his questions.

"You say that you heard a noise at the window after the shot was fired. What did you imagine it to be?"

"I was too nervous at the time to think anything about it, but since I have thought that it must have been someone getting out of the window."

"Did you hear the window being opened?"

"No; I heard nothing but the rustle, as I told you. But it may have been the wind, or my fear."

"Did you catch a glimpse of the person in the room—whoever it was—when you were caught by the throat?"

"No. I only felt the hand. It was quite dark, and I could see nothing."

"You are quite sure this happened to you? You are sure it is not imagination?"

"Oh, no, it was too terribly real."

"Did you observe anything about the revolver when you picked it up?" said Merrington after a pause.

"No, except that it was bright and shining."

"Nor when you placed it in your dress to carry it downstairs?"

"I do not know anything about fire-arms. When I got downstairs I locked it away as quickly as I could."

"So you picked up a revolver which had just been fired, without noticing whether the barrel was hot or cold. Is that what you wish me to believe?"

"I picked it up by the handle. I seem to remember now that it was warm, but I cannot be sure. I hardly knew what I was doing at the time."

Her confusion was so evident that Merrington did not think it worth while to pursue the point.

"If your story is true, why have you not told it before?" he said. "If you are merely the unfortunate victim of circumstances that you claim to be, why did you not announce your innocence when I was questioning you at the moat-house on the day after the murder?"

The girl hesitated perceptibly before answering the question.

"Perhaps I might have done so but for your recognition of my mother," she said at length, in a low tone.

"I fail to see how that affected your own position."

"It seemed to me then that it did," she responded in a firmer tone. "I knew that my story sounded improbable, but after learning what you knew about my mother it seemed to me that you would be even less likely to believe me, so I thought the best thing I could do was to keep silence, and trust to the truth coming to light in some other way."

The recollection of the incidents of his visit to the moat-house came thronging into Merrington's mind at this reply.

"Did you see your mother when you got downstairs on the night of the murder?" he asked.

"Not at first. She came in afterwards."

"How long afterwards?"

The girl, struck by a new note in his voice, looked at him with horror in her widened eyes.

"I understand what you mean," she replied, "but you are wrong—quite wrong. My mother knows nothing whatever about it. She did not even know that I had been upstairs. She is as innocent as I am."

"That does not carry us very far," said Merrington coldly, rising to his feet and touching a bell in front of him. "I do not believe you have told all."