The detective faced them from the doorway.

"Sir," he said to Philip, "I admire your nerve, and I admire the nerve of
your old sweetheart, Miss Wenderley. I am afraid I cannot promise you,
however, that this will be my last visit."

The door closed behind him. They heard the shrill summons of the bell,
the arrival of the lift, the clanging of the iron gate, and its
subsequent descent. Then Beatrice turned her head. Philip was still
smoking serenely, standing with his back to the mantelpiece, his hands in
his pockets. She rose and threw her arms around him.

"Philip!" she cried. "Why, you are wonderful! You are marvellous! You
make me ashamed. It was only for a moment that I lost my nerve, and you
saved us. Oh, what idiots we were! Of course he meant to watch--that's
why he told me he was going to Chicago. The beast!"

"He seems to have got hold of the idea all right, doesn't he?" Philip
muttered.

"Pooh!" she exclaimed encouragingly. "I know a little about the law--so
do you. He hasn't any proof--he never can have any proof. No one will
ever be able to swear that the body which they picked out of the canal
was the body of Douglas Romilly. There wasn't a soul who saw you do it. I
am the only person in the world who could supply the motive, and I--I
shall never be any use to them. Don't you see, Philip?... I shall be your
wife! A wife can't give evidence against her husband! You'll be safe,
dear--quite safe."