At last she spoke. Her deep voice was unemphatic, her enunciation so level as to suggest that English was not her native tongue.

“When,” asked Lady Wutherwood, “will my husband’s body be given to me? They have taken him away. He must return.”

“If you wish it,” said Alleyn, “certainly.”

“I do wish it. When?”

“To-morrow night, perhaps?” Alleyn looked at Curtis who nodded. “To-morrow night, Lady Wutherwood.”

“What are they going to do with him?”

Curtis and Kantripp made deprecatory noises. The nurse put her hand on Lady Wutherwood’s shoulder. Tinkerton the maid, clucked thinly.

“Under the circumstances,” said Alleyn, “there will be an examination.”

“What will they do to him?”

Dr. Kantripp went to her and took her hand. “Now, now,” he said, “you must not distress yourself by thinking about these things.” He might have been a hundred miles away for all the notice she paid him. She did not withdraw her hand but he moved away, quickly and awkwardly.

“Will they do dreadful things to him?” she asked.

“The surgeon will examine the injury,” Alleyn said.

She was silent for a moment and then, on the same level note, “Before he returns,” she said, “tell them to cover his face.”

Curtis murmured something inaudible. Alleyn said: “That will be done.”

“Tell them to cover it with something heavy and thick. Close down his eyes. The eyes of the dead can see where the eyes of the living are blind. That is established, else how could they find their way, as they sometimes do, into strange houses?”

Mr. Fox wrote in his note-book; the nurse looked significantly towards Dr. Kantripp. Tinkerton, over her mistress’shoulder, executed a little series of nods and grimaces and shakes of the head. Alleyn and Lady Wutherwood stared into each other’s faces.

“That is all,” said Lady Wutherwood, “but for one thing. It must be understood that I will not be touched or persecuted or followed. I warn you that there is a great peril in wait for anybody who intercepts me. I have a friend who guards me well. A very powerful friend. That is all.”

“Not quite,” said Alleyn. “Lady Wutherwood, if you had not asked for this interview I should have done so. You see, the circumstances of your husband’s death have obliged me to make very close inquiries.”

Without changing her posture or the fixed blankness of her gaze, she said: “You had better be careful. You are in danger.”

“I,” murmured Alleyn. “How should I be in danger?”

“My husband died because he offended against one greater than himself. I have not been told by whose agency he died. But I know the force that killed him.”

“What force is that?”

The corners of the shifting mouth moved up. Small wrinkles appeared about her eyes. Her face became a mask of an unlovely Comedy. She did not answer Alleyn’s question.

“I must tell you,” he said, “that, if you know of anything that would explain even the smallest detail in the sequence of events that led to his death, you should let the police know what it is. On the other hand we cannot compel you to give information. You may think it advisable to send for your solicitor who, if he considers that you are likely to prejudice yourself by answering any question, will advise you not to do so.”