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“For me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I thought I had better, under the circumstances.”

“Under what circumstances?” I asked. “You mean, about what happened here tonight to Wallace Cunningham?”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “You seem to be up against a blind alley in this case, Mr. Muirhead, and naturally, I thought that . . . I thought, that is . . . that I might be of. . . .”

“If you can be of assistance, Miss Sargent,” I said, “I can hardly tell you how welcome it would be. In just what way do you think you can—”

“Well, it’s just this,” she said slowly, and as she spoke I could see that she paled again at the remembrance, “something happened to me just now that I think you ought to know.”

I was keenly interested at once, of course, and my gaze interrogated her even without my words.

“Happened to you?” I echoed. “Where?”

“In my dressing room. Just now,” she said. “I was alone—I had finished dressing and had sent my maid away. I was sitting at my mirror, for one last look at my hat, and was just about to arise and go out when it happened. It may sound foolish, but I saw it right before my eyes.”

She stopped a little uncertainly, as though she did