“I sent you the invitation to the Bal Masque, didn’t I?” she asked. “Why do you ask?”

“I had an unsigned letter to-day on die lines of your diatribe about the lady.”

Gwendoline sat very straight in her chair.

“I do not send anonymous letters!”

“People do unexpected things when they’re driven to desperation,” said Rollison. “It rather looks as if someone else takes an equally poor view of the loss of memory, doesn’t it?”

“That shouldn’t surprise you.”

“I suppose not. Have you ever talked to the woman?”

“No.”

“Nor met anyone who knows her well?”

“No. If I could give you any more information I would, but surely you’ve enough to start work on.”

“I could hint broadly to your father”

“No!” Gwendoline rose abruptly from her chair and stood over him. “No, you mustn’t do that. He would know in a moment who had put you up to it. If I thought it would do any good to question him I would speak to him myself, but there must be some reason for him keeping it secret, or he would have told us by now. Rolly, don’t be indiscreet. I’m relying on you to—to make sure that”

She broke off, at a loss for words. Rollison stood up and lit another cigarette for her. He promised her that if there seemed any way in which he could find out the truth, he would try to help. The suggestion of speaking to David Barrington-Ley had upset her so much that he found it necessary to talk for several minutes before she calmed down and looked at him a little shamefacedly.

“I’m afraid I’ve been nearly hysterical,” she said.

“Not a bit! And I’m glad you managed to stop me from talking to Hilda before I saw you. How did you find out that I might be going to see her, by the way?”

Gwendoline stared at him, wide-eyed.