There was a good deal more of this sort of thing. There was an interview with the butler, who said that Miss Standing left the house at half past six on the previous evening; she took a taxi to Waterloo and she had with her a large brown trunk, the same she always took to school.

“Well,” said Charles, “What about it?”

“Oh, she’s Margot Standing. I guessed that as soon as she began to talk about her cousin Egbert and her father’s collection of pictures. I’m sure she’s Margot Standing-it’s her story I’m not sure about. What do you make of it? It’s pretty unbelievable-isn’t it? I don’t mean the Percy Smith part-that’s just the sort of trap a little fool of a schoolgirl would walk into. I don’t mean that; I mean all that part about her cousin and the other man planning to remove her. What do you make of that?”

Charles was making a good deal of it. He was remembering his mother’s sitting-room, and the man who had said,

“Margot,” and then, “The girl may have to be removed. A street accident would be the safest way.” And he was remembering that Margaret-Margaret-had talked with this man, that Margaret had been there. He wondered bitterly whether Margot Standing had not jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.

“Charles! Do say something! Do you think there’s anything to it?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” The words burst out. “There’s something. She’s a little fool; but she’s not mad, and she’s not lying. What does it mean?”

Charles was standing very close to her. He had been looking over her shoulder at the paper. Then as they talked, she moved to face him. Now he touched her on the arm, a quick, insistent touch.

“Don’t you know what it means?”

“No-how can I?”

“You don’t know what it means?”

His tone startled her. “Charles-what-why should you say that?”

“Don’t you know?”

She drew back, paler. Something in her eyes-distress, anger-he wasn’t sure.

“Charles, what are you saying? What do you mean?”

Charles put a hand on her shoulder.

“Will you tell me that you’d never heard of Margot Standing before?”

“Of course I’ve heard of her. The papers-”

“That isn’t what I mean. Will you tell me that you’d never heard of her from another source?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her eyes were angry.

“Don’t you? Then will you tell me what you were doing on the night of the third of October?”

“The third?” said Margaret. “The third?” Her voice changed suddenly as she repeated the word; she was puzzled, and then she was frightened-sharply, unexpectedly frightened.

Charles felt all the muscles of her shoulder stiffen under his hand. He kept it there, holding her.

“Will you tell me what you were doing in my house that night?”

Margaret looked at him. Her eyes were dark and fierce.

“Well, Margaret?” he said; and then, quickly, “Don’t lie! I saw you.”

A wave of colour rushed to her face. She wrenched her shoulder free and flung away from him.

“How dare you say a thing like that? When did I ever lie to you?”

“When you said you loved me,” said Charles, and saw the colour ebb away and leave her fainting white.

She kept her eyes on his. They said, “I’ll never forgive you.” Then she turned from him and went to the window. With her back to him, she said in a low, hard voice,

“You saw me?”

“I saw you. And I heard-things.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard-no, I won’t tell you what I heard. It’s no good carrying coals to Newcastle.”

She turned at that.

“What do you mean?”

“That you know it already, I heard enough to make me believe Margot Standing’s story.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

“Tell me what you were doing there.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me whom you were meeting.”

“I can’t.”

“Margaret, for heaven’s sake! What sort of mess is this you’ve got into? Can’t you tell me about it? Can’t you trust me?”

“I-can’t!”

His manner changed. He said lightly,

“Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you what I heard.”

There was silence. Margaret stood looking at him. Her expression changed rapidly. He thought she was going to speak; but instead she pressed her hand over her eyes. The gesture shut him out, and shut her in. He wondered what company she had in the darkness which she was making for herself.

She dropped her hands at last. Her face was composed, too much controlled to tell him anything. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and a little tired. She said,

“Charles, what are we to do with her?”

The “we” was unexpected; it startled him.

“She doesn’t want to go back-she’s afraid to go back.”

“I think she has reason to be afraid,” said Charles.

“You do think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Margaret grew very much paler.

“Charles-” she said. Then she stopped.

Charles looked at her. His look did not help her. It was hard and steady.

“Charles-” she said again.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Charles, you asked me-what I know-I don’t-know- anything-”

“You mean you don’t know anything that you can tell me?”

“No, I don’t mean that. There’s something-I can’t tell you. But it’s not about Margot. I don’t know anything about Margot.” She paused; and all at once fire and colour came back. “Do you think I’d hurt her?”

Charles did not think anything of the sort. No evidence, not even his own, could make him think Margaret capable of hurting any girl. Every instinct, every memory rose up in her defense. He said soberly,

“No, I don’t think you’d hurt her. There might-be others.”

That struck her. She winced away from it.

“She can’t go back,” said Charles. “Can she stay here-safely?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know. Is she safe here? Is she safe with you?”

Margaret lifted her head. The proud, familiar gesture plucked at his heart.

“Yes, she’s safe.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“Will you ask me to?”

Something passed between them-a wordless, passionate question; a passionate, wordless answer. Charles felt a rash of emotion that startled him. He said quickly, “No”; and the moment passed.

Margaret smiled. She seemed to relax, to be more the old Margaret than he had seen her yet.

“Do you want me to keep her?”

“Could you-for a day or two?”

“I suppose I could.”

Neither of them seemed to think it strange that Charles should be in charge. If Margot Standing had been a stray kitten, the affair might have passed very much as it was passing now. He led the way out of Miss Carthew’s flat and into Margaret’s. She threw open the sitting-room door and went in.

Miss Standing looked up very much as the kitten might have done; there was the same grace of pose, the same effect of soft roundness, the same wide-eyed innocence.

“This is Charles Moray who helped me to bring you home last night,” said Margaret.

Charles looked at Margot, and Margot gazed at Charles. He saw the prettiest girl he had ever seen in his life. He said,

“How do you do, Miss Standing?”