She was a respectful lady's maid, frankly answering questions about her dead mistress.

But she did not so successfully keep sentinel over her looks.

She could not but glance from time to time at Harry Luttrell savouring his trouble and anxiety; and when she expressed her conviction that Joan could so easily clear up these mysteries, such a flame of hatred burnt suddenly in her eyes that it lit Martin Hillyard straight to the heart of her purpose.
"So that's it," he thought, and was terrified as he grasped its reach.
An accusation of murder! Oh, nothing so crude.

But just enough suggestion of the possibility of murder to make it absolutely necessary that Joan Whitworth should go into the witness box at the coroner's inquest and acknowledge before the world that she had hurried secretly back from Harrel to meet Mario Escobar in an empty house.

Mario Escobar too! Of all people, Mario Escobar! Jenny Prask had builded better than she knew.