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Never once since they entered the room had the golden-haired Miss Knowles taken her eyes from the face of the woman with the harp; and she wore a curiously expectant expression which Ashton-Kirk did not fail to note.

“Miss Hohenlo is devoted to her instrument,” she said. “And such attachment is always charming.”

Miss Hohenlo simpered, colourlessly.

“To me it is but a toy,” she said.

Miss Knowles laughed. It was a light laugh and had a musical sound; but there was something behind it which caused the crime specialist’s eyes to narrow and grow eager.

“A toy,” said Miss Knowles. “Oh, surely you don’t mean that—after the nights you’ve shut yourself up with it in your hands.”

The dull eyes of Miss Hohenlo, so it seemed, grew duller than ever; she looked into the beautiful face before her, and lifted one slim hand to her faded hair.

“My dear Grace,” she said, “you are such an observant creature.” The eyes turned upon Ashton-Kirk, and she went on: “And I had hoped that my poor studies were unnoticed. One can never be sure of anything.”