Wimsey was conducted through a number of bare corridors to a small room with a glass door. There was a long deal table in it and a couple of repellent chairs, one at either end of the table.

“Here you are, my lord. You sit at one end and the prisoner at the other, and you must be careful not to move from your seats, nor to pass any object over the table. I shall be outside and see you through the glass, my lord, but I shan’t be able to overhear nothing. If you will take a seat, they’ll bring the prisoner in, my lord.”

Wimsey sat down and waited, a prey to curious sensations. Presently there was a noise of footsteps, and the prisoner was brought in, attended by a female wardress. She took the chair opposite to Wimsey, the wardress withdrew and the door was shut. Wimsey, who had risen, cleared his throat.

“Good afternoon, Miss Vane,” he said, unimpressively.

The prisoner looked at him.

“Please sit down,” she said, in the curious, deep voice which had attracted him in Court. “You are Lord Peter Wimsey, I believe, and have come from Mr. Crofts.”

“Yes,” said Wimsey. Her steady gaze was unnerving him. “Yes. I – er – I heard the case and all that, and – er – I thought there might be something I could do, don’t you know.”

“That was very good of you,” said the prisoner.

“Not at all, not at all, dash it! I mean to say, I rather enjoy investigating things, if you know what I mean.”

“I know. Being a writer of detective stories, I have naturally studied your career with interest.”

She smiled suddenly at him and his heart turned to water.

“Well, that’s rather a good thing in a way, because you’ll understand that I’m not really such an ass as I’m looking at present.”

That made her laugh.

“You’re not looking an ass – at least, not more so than any gentleman should under the circumstances. The background doesn’t altogether suit your style, but you are a very refreshing sight. And I’m really very grateful to you, though I’m afraid I’m rather a hopeless case.”

“Don’t say that. It can’t be hopeless, unless you actually did it, and I know you didn’t.”

“Well, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. But I feel it’s like one book I wrote, in which I invented such a perfectly watertight crime that I couldn’t devise any way for my detective to prove it, and had to fall back on the murderer’s confession.”

“If necessary, we’ll do the same. You don’t happen to know who the murderer is, I suppose?”

“I don’t think there is one. I really believe Philip took the stuff himself. He was rather a defeatist sort of person, you know.”

“I suppose he took your separation pretty hard?”

“Well, I daresay it was partly that. But I think it was more that he didn’t feel he was sufficiently appreciated. He was apt to think that people were in league to spoil his chances.”

“And were they?”

“No, I don’t think so. But I do think he offended a great many people. He was rather apt to demand things as a right – and that annoys people, you know.”

“Yes, I see. Did he get on all right with his cousin?”

“Oh, yes; though of course he always said it was no more than Mr. Urquhart’s duty to look after him. Mr. Urquhart is fairly well off, as he has quite a big professional connection, but Philip really had no claim on him, as it wasn’t family money or anything. His idea was that great artists deserved to be boarded and lodged at the expense of the ordinary man.”

Wimsey was fairly well acquainted with this variety of the artistic temperament. He was struck, however, by the tone of the reply, which was tinged, he thought, with bitterness and even some contempt. He put his next question with some hesitation.

“Forgive my asking, but – you were very fond of Philip Boyes?”

“I must have been, mustn’t I – under the circumstances?”

“Not necessarily,” said Wimsey, boldly, “you might have been sorry for him – or bewitched by him – or even badgered to death by him.”

“All those things.”

Wimsey considered for a moment.

“Were you friends?”

“No.” The word broke out with a kind of repressed savagery that startled him. “Philip wasn’t the sort of man to make a friend of a woman. He wanted devotion. I gave him that. I did, you know. But I couldn’t stand being made a fool of. I couldn’t stand being put on probation, like an office-boy, to see if I was good enough to be condescended to. I quite thought he was honest when he said he didn’t believe in marriage – and then it turned out that it was a test, to see whether my devotion was abject enough. Well, it wasn’t. I didn’t like having matrimony offered as a bad-conduct prize.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Wimsey.

“Don’t you?”

“No. It sounds to me as if the fellow was a prig – not to say a bit of a cad. Like that horrid man who pretended to be a landscape-painter and then embarrassed the unfortunate young woman with the burden of an honour unto which she was not born. I’ve no doubt he made himself perfectly intolerable about it, with his ancient oaks and family plate, and the curtseying tenantry and all the rest of it.”

Harriet Vane laughed once more.

“Yes – it’s ridiculous – but humiliating too. Well, there it is. I thought Philip had made both himself and me ridiculous, and the minute I saw that – well, the whole thing simply shut down – flop!”

She sketched a gesture of finality.

“I quite see that,” said Wimsey. “Such a Victorian attitude, too, for a man with advanced ideas. He for God only, she for God in him, and so on. Well, I’m glad you feel like that about it.”

“Are you? It’s not going to be exactly helpful in the present crisis.”

“No; I was looking beyond that. What I mean to say is, when all this is over, I want to marry you, if you can put up with me and all that.”

Harriet Vane, who had been smiling at him, frowned, and an indefinable expression of distaste came into her eyes.

“Oh, are you another of them? That makes forty-seven.”

“Forty-seven what?” asked Wimsey, much taken aback.

“Proposals. They come in by every post. I suppose there are a lot of imbeciles who want to marry anybody who’s at all notorious.”

“Oh,” said Wimsey. “Dear me, that makes it very awkward. As a matter of fact, you know, I don’t need any notoriety. I can get into the papers off my own bat. It’s no treat to me. Perhaps I’d better not mention it again.”

His voice sounded hurt, and the girl eyed him rather remorsefully.

“I’m sorry – but one gets rather a bruised sort of feeling in my position. There have been so many beastlinesses.”

“I know,” said Lord Peter. “It was stupid of me -”

“No, I think it was stupid of me. But why -?”

“Why? Oh, well – I thought you’d be rather an attractive person to marry. That’s all. I mean, I sort of took a fancy to you. I can’t tell you why. There’s no rule about it, you know.”

“I see. Well, it’s very nice of you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t sound as if you thought it was rather funny. I know I’ve got a silly face, but I can’t help that. As a matter of fact, I’d like somebody I could talk sensibly to, who would make life interesting. And I could give you a lot of plots for your books, if that’s any inducement.”

“But you wouldn’t want a wife who wrote books, would you?”

“But I should; it would be great fun. So much more interesting than the ordinary kind that is only keen on clothes and people. Though of course, clothes and people are all right too, in moderation. I don’t mean to say I object to clothes.”

“And how about the old oaks and the family plate?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be bothered with them. My brother does all that. I collect first editions and incunabulae, which is a little tedious of me, but you wouldn’t need to bother with them either unless you liked.”

“I don’t mean that. What would your family think about it?”

“Oh, my mother’s the only one that counts, and she likes you very much from what she’s seen of you.”