Brought down to mere essentials, it differed very little from what Mr. Narkom had already told him. It was the tale of a man who had incurred the wrath of native priests for what was in reality nothing less than looting their temple of its greatest treasure, a Fire Opal, which was known historically as the Eye of Ashtaroth, the Assyrian goddess of beauty. In the fight at the temple Sir Thomas had only saved his own life and those of his few followers by shooting the head priest with his revolver. Dying, the man had cursed him in one of the fearful curses of the East, and vowed that his spirit would follow the Sacred Eye to the uttermost ends of the earth, and that every human being that touched the stone should die "in the darkness that walketh by night, by fire that knows no heat, and by a death that leaves no sign, but passes through walls of stone and bars of steel."

"Splendid!" commented Cleek, with a little nod of approval. "By the way, Mr. Montelet, who told you the history of this ill-fated stone and its fearful curse of a wandering spirit that slays in the dark?"

"Why, my father himself, Mr. Headland. I remember when he brought the wretched stone back and fixed it up in a steel-lined case, of which the top was glass. He had a kind of mimic altar made—you shall see it for yourself—on which the case was put. No one but my dear stepmother knew how the stone was put into its pedestal. No one but my father had ever touched it, and after the priest died I don't believe even he did so with his bare hands."

"H'm. I see! And did Lady Montelet believe in the priest's curse or not?"

"Not at first—not, in fact, till after that poor maid of ours died last year. She accidentally let her broomhandle fall through the glass top of the case and whether she did touch the stone or not, or whether it was, as our doctor said, that she died of fright, her heart having been known to be weak, one can't say. But she was found dead. Then, six months later, a young orphaned French girl from a Russian convent, Celestine Merode—— Why, what's the matter?"

"Celestine! A convent!" Cleek ejaculated. "The two things are so utterly incongruous!"

"Why, did you know her?" asked the young man in natural bewilderment.

"Know her! Yes, she was the sister of one of the worst scoundrels that ever formed a unit of the Apaches."

"The Apaches!" gasped young Montelet. "Good heavens! But she came with the very finest credentials, to act as companion for my stepmother. She was a dear girl, and it nearly broke my mother's heart when she, too, was found dead. Lady Montelet has a penchant for French companions, and her present one, Marie Vaudrot, who has been with her ever since, is also French. She was vouched for by a Countess Somebody or other, and she has been like a daughter to my mother.... Oh! it is too, too awful!" he burst out, fiercely. "First my dear, dear father——"

"Good heavens!" burst out Mr. Narkom. "Did he too, die mysteriously? I understood that he died from pneumonia."

"So he did," was the low-toned reply; "but on the night of his death he eluded the nurse while she slept, and we—my mother and I—found him lying in front of the altar. The glass was removed, leaving the stone exposed. He must have touched it—and he had died...." His voice trailed away into silence, and a wave of emotion surged over him, choking him. Suddenly he swung round with an intense desperation in his face and voice. "Help me, Mr. Headland! Let me avenge these deaths. The stone I care nothing for. Thank Heaven it is gone, that no more murders may be committed for its sake. Help me to avenge the woman who was more than a mother to me—the best, the truest that ever lived! If I could have done anything in this world to have saved her, but I couldn't, I couldn't! Nothing on earth could save her."

Cleek twitched up an inquiring eyebrow.

"Save her from what, Mr. Montelet? The effect of the curse?"

"The curse!" he echoed in tones of unutterable contempt. "No, there's nothing supernatural about that! You know as well as I do that such a thing is all rot. People can't be killed like that in a steel-lined room, with a bolted door and barred windows, thirty feet above the ground; nor do I believe in heart disease. No; there's a human agency at the back of the mystery, and you yourself have given me a clue as to the perpetrators. It is that gang of thieves, the Apaches, who are the root of the mystery, and Miss Marie Vaudrot will turn out to be a second Celestine Merode. No wonder Laura distrusts her."

"Laura! And, pray, who is that?" interposed Cleek, gazing into the young man's excited face.

A flush came over it. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Miss Laura Gwynne, Mr. Headland—Lady Montelet's stepdaughter. She, you know, was married twice, and Laura was brought up in the French convent of Notre Dame. She is a few years older than I am, though no one would believe it, and a noble girl.

"Laura says Marie Vaudrot was outside the long gallery the night of the murder. One hates to bring suspicion against a woman, Mr. Headland, but when you consider how greatly that woman would, and does, benefit by our dear mother's death, you must feel yourself that I—we—have strong grounds for suspicion."

"Certainly, I understand," said Cleek, promptly. "But in what way does this young lady benefit? She is no relation, is she?"

"Not in the least; but while I was away this summer my mother grew to love her as if she were her own daughter, and made a will leaving her, I believe, nearly a third of Sir Thomas's fortune; and as most of the historic jewels were willed by him to the nation, including the stolen Fire Opal, that diminished our share considerably, and you will admit it is not entirely just to either of us personally. There will be more than enough for my modest needs; but Laura, Miss Gwynne, is angry because Lady Montelet had always shown her the deepest affection and promised that the property should be equally divided between us. She is so self-sacrificing, however, that she has begged me to hush the matter up, so that no scandal shall be attached to the name. She is absolutely sure that Miss Marie Vaudrot is connected in some way with the murder. She——"

Suddenly the door opened behind them, and framed in the open doorway stood the slim figure of a sweet-faced girl. It did not need young Montelet's worshipping if surprised cry of "Laura" nor Mr. Narkom's greeting to tell Cleek who this girl was. A moment or two later the young man had made that assurance doubly sure, and the detective and Miss Gwynne were shaking hands together.

"I ought not to have intruded on you," said Miss Gwynne in a voice low-pitched and musical, "but—but—I was passing, and I saw Hubert's face through the window, and I guessed what he had done. He wishes to spare my feelings," her sweet voice broke in a sob, "but, of course, he is right. I must not let my feelings for one of my own sex blind me to my duty both to the dead and to my country."

Cleek raised an inquiring eyebrow at the latter part of this remark.

"Yes," she continued, "if it was Sir Thomas's wish that the Government should have the sacred stone, then surely it is only right that I should do all that lies in my power to get it back."

"Quite right," said Cleek, approvingly. "Now, what about this Marie Vaudrot? I understand that she was found wandering down the corridor near the place of the murder. Is that so?"

"Yes, alas, it is. Miss Vaudrot was very, very upset when mother announced her intention of watching in the gallery, because of the ridiculous story of the servants."

"It was possibly Miss Vaudrot's own story, Laura," put in young Montelet, excitedly.

Miss Gwynne shook her head at him.

"Mr. Headland must be left to draw his own conclusions, Hubert," she said, somewhat sharply. "After all, it may be someone else, and I cannot bear to accuse people behind their backs. Let us leave the matter till Mr. Headland has been up to the house. Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Headland?"

"Right you are," said Cleek with a smile and a nod. "I quite appreciate your feelings in the matter, Miss Gwynne. And, I say, Mr. Narkom," looking at his watch, "if I'm going to get up the river to-day, and get back in town in time to dress for the theatre, don't yer know, I think I had better come right away and have a peep at this fascinating young murderess of yours. So if Miss Gwynne has no objection to my going on with the case, we'd better be moving."

Miss Gwynne was all eagerness to "get on with the case," despite the report of her desire for letting things go.

"Oh, dear no, Mr. Headland. Please come right along now," she said, quickly. "It was only my foolish fear of scandal, and perhaps pity for one of whom my dear mother was so fond, that has caused me to raise even a slight objection. We are quite close, and in Mr. Narkom's car it would not take ten minutes."

"Good," said Cleek, stooping suddenly to retie his shoelace close beside the chair where Mr. Montelet stood, waiting for his companions to move. "Go on and tell Lennard to get his engine going, Mr. Narkom. I want to get up the river some time to-day, and the quicker I get through this blessed report of mine the better."

Two minutes later the limousine was racing away in the golden sunshine, carrying its passengers to the scene of the mysterious death; and Cleek was again stooping to retie another shoelace, which apparently was giving him a lot of trouble.