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AT eleven o'clock next morning Fetherston stood in Trendall's room at Scotland Yard reporting to him the suspicious movements of Monsieur and Madame Granier. His friend leaned back in his padded chair listening while the keen-faced man in pince-nez related all the facts, and in doing so showed how shrewd and astute he had been. "Then they are just what we thought," remarked the chief.
"To a woman," was Trendall's slow and serious reply. "To the woman who murdered him!" "But if she had poisoned him, surely he would not send for her?" exclaimed Fetherston. "At the moment he was not aware of the woman's jealousy, or of the subtle means used to cause his untimely end. He was unsuspicious of that cruel, deadly hatred lying so deep in the woman's breast.
"What secret do you suggest might have been divulged?" he asked at last after a long pause. The big room the Room of Secrets was silent, for the double windows prevented the noise of the traffic and the "honk" of the taxi horns from penetrating there. Only the low ticking of the clock broke the quiet. "I scarcely have any suggestion to offer in that direction," was Trendall's slow reply.
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