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have been. I gather that she is in possession of Anne’s fur coat and going-away dress, her pearls, wedding and engagement rings, also her passport and identity card. How do you account for that?”
    Philip continued to walk up and down.
    “I told them to get their valuables. Anne came down with the handbag that woman has got—it was one of her wedding presents. The papers and the jewelry must have been in it. One of the girls was carrying the fur coat—I ought to be able to remember which of them, but I can’t.”
    “Unfortunately.” Mr. Codrington’s tone was dry.
    Philip swung round on him.
    “Look here, if I was lying I’d say Annie had it, wouldn’t I? I just can’t remember. All I do know is that Anne hadn’t got it when I carried her to the boat. If Pierre or Annie had it they could have got it back to the château. If Annie was as cold as she says she was she probably wore it. Pierre had a couple of suit-cases. I don’t know what happened to them. It was pitch-dark, and the Boche shooting at us. Anne was hit right away. Annie may have picked up the handbag, or she may have had it all along—I can’t say.”
    “I see. There’s really no evidence there. It would cut either way. What about handwriting?”
    Philip said gloomily, “She’s had three and a half years to practice Anne’s writing. It looks pretty good to me. I don’t know what an expert would say.”
    “Juries don’t like experts.”
    Philip nodded.
    “I’ve always thought they did a good deal of hard swearing myself.”
    “Juries distrust technicalities.”
    Philip came over to the writing-table and sat down on the corner.
    “For God’s sake don’t go on talking about juries! This woman isn’t Anne, and we’ve got to get her to admit it. She is Annie Joyce, and I want you to tell her that as Annie Joyce she is in my opinion entitled to Theresa Jocelyn’s thirty thousand pounds. I told Anne that I wouldn’t let her keep the money, and I told you after Anne’s death that I had no intention of keeping it myself unless I was sure Annie Joyce was dead. Well, she isn’t dead—she’s in the parlour with Lyndall. They are probably going through Aunt Milly’s collection of snapshots.” Mr. Codrington exclaimed, and Philip laughed. “They started on them last night. It was most tactfully done. ‘Dear Aunt Milly, have you been able to keep up your photography at all? Oh, yes—do let me see! You don’t know how starved I’ve been for a familiar face!’ And if they weren’t familiar before, you can bet she’s getting them by heart as quickly as she can.”
    Mr. Codrington said quickly, “Why did you allow it? It shouldn’t have been allowed.”
    Philip shrugged.
    “A good deal of it happened before I came. Lyn’s following her round like a dog. Thinks I’m—” His voice changed, dropped almost to inaudibility. “I don’t know what she thinks.”
    Mr. Codrington drummed on his knee.
    “Mrs. Armitage ought to have had more sense.”
    Philip got up and walked away.
    “Oh, you can’t blame Aunt Milly. She and Lyn hadn’t a doubt—until I came. Aunt Milly is shaken now—at least I hope she is. But Lyn—” He turned round and came back.
    “We’ve got right away from the point. I want you to go into the parlour and tell that woman she can have Theresa’s thirty thousand down on the nail for a nice safe legal receipt signed Annie Joyce.”
    CHAPTER 7
    Lyndall came out of the parlour and shut the door behind her. For a moment there was a little relief, an illusory feeling of escape. And then Philip came down at the top of his angry stride and took her by the arm and marched her off.
    When he had slammed the study door he leaned against it and said,
    “Now you’re for it! What are you playing at?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You’re making a damned fool of yourself!”
    Words sprang to her lips but were not allowed to pass them. They horrified her so much that she turned even whiter than she had been before, because