Monk seized on the hesitation, reading the indecision in her face.

"You must be frank," he said gravely. "You owe Mrs. Stourbridge that. What do you mean ’not really’? What were you thinking about when you said that?"

Still, she was reluctant.

Monk looked at her grimly until she flushed and finally answered.

"Well ... I was thinking of that time I brought back Mrs. Stourbridge’s clean petticoats, to hang them up, like, an’ I found Mrs. Gardiner sitting at Mrs. Stourbridge’s dressing table ... and she had one of Mrs. Stourbridge’s necklaces on. She said as Mrs. Stourbridge had said she could borrow it _— but she never said nothing to me as anyone could. And ... and Mrs. Stourbridge’s diary was lying open on her bed, an’ that’s a thing I’ve never seen before."

"Did she explain that, too?"

"No ... I never asked."

"I see."

She looked wretched, and seemed glad to escape when they excused her.

It was half past five. Robb stood facing the window and the brilliant sunlight as the first noises of awakening came in from the street. A horse and cart rolled by. Somewhere on the farther side of the road there were footsteps on the pavement. A door opened and closed. He turned back to the room. His face was pale and he looked exhausted and miserable.

"I’ve got to arrest her," he said flatly. "Seems she couldn’t wait to get her hands on the pretty things ... or to pry into Mrs. Stourbridge’s affairs. I wish that wasn’t so. Money does strange things to some people."

"She didn’t have to hurt Verona Stourbridge to have that," Monk pointed out. "No one objected to the marriage."

"Perhaps she did," Robb said, his back stiff, his head high. He was determined to stand up to Monk on the issue, because he believed it. It was a testing ground between them, and he was going to prove his own authority. "Perhaps Mrs. Stourbridge knew whatever it was Treadwell knew, or even that Miriam killed him."

Monk drew in his breath to argue, but each protest died on his lips. They were empty, and he knew it. No one else had any reason or motive to harm Verona Stourbridge, and there was no physical evidence to implicate any of them. Miriam was already deeply involved in the murder of James Treadwell. And strangely enough, she had not defended herself in any coherent way. Any jury would find it easy enough to believe that she had set out deliberately to charm Lucius, a wealthy and naive young man. He was handsome and intelligent enough, but not worldly wise, and might be easily duped by a woman older than he and well practiced in the ways of pleasing.

Then she had seen the luxury of the life she could expect, but through an unforeseeable misfortune, the coachman knew something of her past which was so ugly it would have spoiled her dream. He had blackmailed her.