brother himself does not deny his guilt, I understand.”
“He has not denied it,” she answered—“very likely he will not do so before the magistrate—but neither has he admitted it. Mr. Ruff, you are such a clever man. Can’t you see the truth?”
Peter Ruff looked at her steadily for several moments.
“Lady Mary,” he said, “I can see what you are going to suggest. You are going on the assumption that Austen Abbott was shot by Letty Shaw and that your brother is taking the thing on his shoulders.”
“I am sure of it!” she declared. “The girl did it herself, beyond a doubt. Brian would never have shot any one. He might have horsewhipped him, perhaps—even beaten him to death—but shot him in cold blood—never!”
“The provocation—” Ruff began.
“There was no provocation,” she interrupted. “He was engaged to the girl, and of course we hated it, but she was an honest little thing, and devoted to him.”
“Doubtless,” Ruff admitted. “But all the same, as you will hear before the magistrates, or at the inquest, she was having supper alone with Austen Abbott that night at the Milan.”
Lady Mary’s eyes flashed.
“I don’t believe it!” she declared.
“It is nevertheless true,” Peter Ruff assured her. “There is no shadow of doubt about it.”
Lady Mary was staggered. For a few moment she seemed struggling to rearrange her thoughts.
“You see,” Ruff continued, “the fact that Miss Shaw was willing to sup with Austen Abbott tete-a-tete renders it more improbable that she should shoot him in her sitting room, an hour or so later, and then go calmly up to her mother’s room as though nothing had happened.”
Lady Mary had lost some of her confidence, but she was not daunted.
“Even if we have been deceived in the girl,” she said, thoughtfully—“even if she were disposed to flirt with other men—even then there might be a stronger motive than ever for her wishing to get rid of Abbott. He may have become jealous, and threatened her.”
“It is, of course, possible,” Ruff assented, politely. “Your theory would, at any rate, account for your brother’s present attitude.”
She looked at him steadfastly.
“You believe, then,” she said, “that my brother shot Austen Abbott?”
“I do,” he admitted frankly. “So does every man or woman of common sense in London. On the facts as they are stated in the newspapers, with the addition of which I have told you, no other conclusion is possible.”
Lady Mary rose.
“Then I may as well go,” she said tearfully.
“Not at all,” Peter Ruff declared. “Listen. This is a matter of business with me. I say that on the facts as they are known, your brother’s guilt appears indubitable. I do not say that there may not be other facts in the background which alter the state of affairs. If you wish me to search for them, engage me, and I will do my best.”
“Isn’t that what I am here for?” the girl exclaimed.
“Very well,” Peter Ruff said. “My services are at your disposal.”
“You will do your best—more than your best, won’t you?” she begged. “Remember that he is my brother—my favourite brother!”
“I will do what can be done,” Peter Ruff promised. “Please sit down at that desk and write me two letters of introduction.”
She drew off her gloves and prepared to obey him.
“To whom?” she asked.
“To the solicitors who are defending your brother,” he said, “and to Miss Letty Shaw.”
“You mean to go and see her?” Lady Mary asked, doubtfully.
“Naturally,” Peter Ruff answered. “If your supposition is correct, she might easily give herself away under a little subtle cross-examination. It is my business to know how to ask people questions in such a way that if they do not speak the truth their words give some indication of it. If she is innocent I shall know that I have to make my effort in another direction.”
“What other direction can there be?” Lady Mary asked dismally.
Peter Ruff said nothing. He was too kind-hearted to kindle false hopes.
“It’s a hopeless case, of course,” Miss Brown remarked, after Lady Mary had departed.
“I’m afraid so,” Peter Ruff answered. “Still I must earn my money. Please get some one to take you to supper to-night at the Milan, and see if you can pick up any scandal.”
“About Letty?” she asked.
“About either of them,” he answered. “Particularly I should like to know if any explanation has cropped up of her supping alone with Austen Abbott.”
“I don’t see why you can’t take me yourself,” she remarked. “You are on the side of the law this time, at any rate.”
“I will,” he answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will call for you at eleven o’clock to-night.”
He rose and closed his desk emphatically.
“You are going out?” she asked.
“I am going to see Miss Letty Shaw,” he answered.
He took a taxicab to the flats, and found a handful of curious people still gazing up at the third floor. The parlourmaid who answered his summons was absolutely certain that Miss Shaw would not see him. He persuaded her, after some difficulty, to take in his letter while he waited in the hall. When she returned, she showed him into a small sitting room and pulled down the blinds.
“Miss Shaw will see you, sir, for a few minutes,” she announced, in a subdued tone. “Poor dear young lady,” she continued, “she has been crying her eyes out all the morning.”
“No wonder,” Peter Ruff said, sympathetically. “It’s a terrible business, this!”
“One of the nicest young men as ever walked,” the girl declared, firmly. “As for that brute, he deserved all he’s got, and more!”
Peter Ruff was left alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then the door was softly opened and Letty Shaw entered. There was no doubt whatever about her suffering. Ruff, who had seen her only lately at the theatre, was shocked. Under her eyes were blacker lines than her pencil had ever traced. Not only was she ghastly pale, but her face seemed wan and shrunken. She spoke to him the moment she entered, leaning with on hand upon the sideboard.
“Lady Mary writes that you want to help us,” she said. “How can you? How is it possible?”
