"A poisoner!" shuddered one of the under-secretaries. "I remember the case. He killed his nephew and defended himself on the plea that the youth was a degenerate, as he undoubtedly was."
"He might have got that defence past in America or France," said Beale, "but unfortunately there was a business end to the matter. He was the sole heir of his nephew's considerable fortune, and a jury from the Society of Eugenics would have convicted him on that."
He looked at his watch and turned his eyes to Kitson.
"I presume Miss Cresswell is bored and has retired for the night," he said.
"I'll find out in a moment," said Kitson. "Did you speak to her?"
Beale nodded, and his eyes twinkled.
"Did you make any progress?"
"I broke the sad news to her, if that's what you mean."
"You told her she was married to you? Good heavens! What did she say?"
"Well, she didn't faint, I don't think she's the fainting kind. She is cursed with a sense of humour, and refused even to take a tragic view."
"That's bad," said Kitson, shaking his head. "A sense of humour is out of place in a divorce court, and that is where your little romance is going to end, my friend."
"I am not so sure," said Beale calmly, and the other stared at him.
"You have promised me," he began, with a note of acerbity in his voice.
"And you have advised me," said Beale.
Kitson choked down something which he was going to say, but which he evidently thought was better left unsaid.
"Wait," he commanded, "I will find out whether Miss Cresswell," he emphasized the words, "has gone to bed."
He passed through the door to Oliva's sitting-room and was gone a few minutes. When he came back Beale saw his troubled face, and ran forward to meet him.
"She's not there," said Kitson.
