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A girl stood at one side feeding a thrush through the bars of a basket cage; she was attired in a gown flowing and white, her hair was the colour of yellow silk, parted in the centre, and hanging down over her breast in two thick braids.

“Miss Knowles,” said Campe, and the girl turned. “A friend of Mr. Scanlon,” continued the young man, “Mr. Ashton-Kirk.”

The girl was very beautiful; her skin was like velvet, and her colour like roses. She was smiling as the crime specialist bowed to her; but upon the instant that his name was mentioned, the receptacle which held the grain she had been offering the bird fell to the stone floor and smashed; the delicate colour left her cheeks; she stood staring, her blue eyes full of consternation.

“Grace!” cried Campe, in alarm.

But in a single instant she had recovered herself; the colour rushed back to her face, the smile returned to the lips.

“It is nothing at all,” she said. “That headache of which I complained yesterday seems not to have all gone. I’ve felt a little faint several times this morning.”