It is not often that it falls to the lot of any village to revel in such abysmal depths of excitement as did the village of Hampton when the news leaked out, and once the affair was known to the local police and their respective wives, the news of the tragedy spread with the velocity of a hurricane. By nine o'clock the next morning there wasn't an inhabitant within a radius of ten miles that had not heard of the murder of Miss Cheyne, and the mysterious disappearance of Lady Margaret. An hour later, the lanes and fields were thronged to overflowing with the chattering mob of sightseers, which the police, strongly reinforced by the reserves of several neighbouring hamlets, found more than a difficult task to keep in order. The story grew with every telling.

Miss Cheyne had been killed—oh, yes, months ago—and this man who had taken her place had murdered Lady Margaret, though it was not to be allowed to leak out. "Oh, no"—with many a wise shake of the head, and knowing wink—"the police knew their business." But what had they done with the girl's body? Ah! that remained to be seen. Meanwhile, if human ingenuity and absolute disregard of time stood for anything, they meant to see the body of the impostor for themselves.

Tongues wagged and heads nodded, but nevertheless, none but the police themselves, and such representatives of the press as were absolutely necessary, had been permitted to cross the threshold of Cheyne Court, or even obtain the merest glimpse of the dead man. Notwithstanding Cleek's reserve, and Mr. Narkom's own restrictions, news had managed to leak out of the mysterious sign of the Pentacle upon the murderer's arm, and as Scotland Yard—as represented by Cleek and the Superintendent—refused to give forth any further knowledge that they might well be supposed to possess, imagination ran riot.

The correspondent of the Party Lantern therefore "discovered" that the murdered man was a famous member of a Royal house, condemned by his seniors to become dead to the world, owing to his having offended the masonic societies of his country. Further details the Lantern refused to give, though hinting darkly at deeds of misconduct that would have made Don Giovanni turn green with envy. As to the whereabouts of Lady Margaret, they again contented themselves with wild hints as to what they might have told, had it not been for their "honour."

On the other hand, the Evening Tatler "discovered" and declared the man to be nothing more exciting than a low-down anarchist, who had tried to do his boon companions out of their share of the loot of the Cheyne jewels. That they were any nearer to the truth, however, than their contemporary, was equally open to query; though when Mr. Narkom pointed out the arguments of the reporter to his ally Cleek gave a little approving nod.

"Best thing we can do is to shut that young man up," he said, tersely. "Get on to the Evening Tatler, Mr. Narkom, and tell the news editor that we only want vague eventualities given to the public just now—no facts at all. Otherwise, you know, we shall put the Pentacle Club on guard, and if this is one of its crimes, we want to scotch the whole gang once and for all. That this man was a member of the Club is certain, for the markings of that Pentacle were not branded on, as in former cases where people were murdered from motives of revenge, but finely tattooed, showing that our friend is decidedly an old hand at the game. Personally, I want to find out what Blake is doing."

Mr. Narkom mopped his face with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign of emotion upon his part.

"I don't think this can be James Blake," said he, reflectively, "for I looked up his record after what you said a little while back about his being the head of the gang and learned that he left England a year or more ago, and nothing had been heard of him in his old haunts, or by his boon companions since."

"Hmn," said Cleek with a grim little laugh, "lying low, evidently, after, or in view of some big coup, but that doesn't prove anything about our murdered friend here. It's finger-prints we want."

"And we shall have them, too," threw in the Superintendent triumphantly, fumbling in his pocketbook with fingers that themselves shook with excitement. "I had a copy made of Blake's."

"Good man," ejaculated Cleek, as he took the precious scrap of paper, and went up to the room wherein had been placed the victim of a vengeance, possibly as just as that of the law itself. By the time Mr. Narkom had made his way more slowly and ponderously up to the same spot, he found Cleek looking down with considerable disappointment.

"Barked up a wrong tree this time," he said, but the light of a great discovery shone in his eyes and his voice had an undercurrent of strong excitement. "This is not James Blake, but I can tell you who it is. Justice has simply been forestalled——"

His face was grim and Mr. Narkom looked up into it almost breathless.

"What is it, old chap; tell me?" he gasped. "What have you discovered?"

Cleek smiled.

"This man is the murderer of Elsie McBride, the old wardrobe seller of Crown Court, so her murder will not have gone long unavenged!"

"But—how—are you sure?" said the startled Superintendent.

"Quite sure, my friend," was the reply. "Whatever other disguises a man may assume, as we know, there is no escape from the irrefutable proof of finger-prints. Here——"

He lifted up the dead hand, and with a magnifying glass in his own, brought the thumb before Mr. Narkom's gaze.

"Now compare these thumb and finger marks with these which are a copy of those found on that dagger with which the poor woman was killed. You will see that they are identical. I'll nip off to town now and see whether I can get the other old woman down here to identify this man. I think, too, when we have discovered the motive for this murder we shall have gone far to have found out the reason why Lady Margaret was abducted. But that remains to be seen."

And afterward, when the turn of events had crowded even more important matters from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered these words.

Meanwhile a search of the house had not revealed the hiding place of the famous jewels, and Mr. Shallcott, who was the first to come down and investigate after he had read the surprising facts in his morning paper, was full of remorse that they should have been lost.

"I shall never forgive myself, Mr. Headland," he said, peering short-sightedly at that gentleman. "I might have known there was something wrong in the jewels being taken out like that, and if only I had persisted in seeing the poor child alone, all would have been well."

Cleek laid a hand upon his arm and gave it a gentle pressure.

"You could not help yourself, Mr. Shallcott," replied he, sympathetically, "and neither legally nor morally can you be held responsible. She was the victim of a deep-laid plot to effect their theft. As to the murder, I cannot say yet. We can only await the turn of events."

Cleek himself felt a natural if morbid remorse for having so innocently placed Lady Margaret in the hands of the Pentacle Club. Accordingly, on the following day, when he was immersed in collecting his facts at the Hampton Arms, preparatory to going down to meet Mr. Narkom at the police station, he was greeted by the voice of Sir Edgar Brenton himself; he jumped up with pleasure and excitement in his voice.

"Ah, Sir Edgar, the very man I want," he said, looking into the lined, drawn face, no longer that of a boy, but of a man, and one in deepest trouble at that. "What have you been doing with yourself since last night? I expected you to have joined us in watching Cheyne Court. As it is, you know what has happened, I have no doubt."

Sir Edgar's apathetic eyes met his.

"Yes," said he, dully. "Miss Cheyne was murdered by those devils, after all. I thought they would. I was sure of it! But what I want to know is, where Lady Margaret is, Mr. Headland? What has become of her? Surely there is some trace of her by this time!"

His haunted, anguished eyes watched Cleek's inscrutable face and, notwithstanding the almost complete chain of evidence that was being slowly but surely welded about him, Cleek felt the same instinctive liking for the young man as he had when they had first met.

"I should have thought you could have answered that question better yourself, Sir Edgar," he said, quietly. "Why did you rush up to town so unexpectedly?"

A wave of scarlet passed over the young man's pallid face.

"I was a fool, I suppose, but as I was passing the station I saw, or I fancied I saw, the face of that girl whom Margaret called Aggie and I thought it might be a clue. I wasn't certain, I didn't pay much attention to the creature when I saw her with my girl in Trafalgar Square. And so, without stopping to think, I rushed up the steps, took a ticket, dashed on to the platform, and just had time to tell the porter to take a message up to my mother, who might have been anxious and started off."

"Yes," said Cleek, quietly. "But what about this Aggie you speak of? Did you see anything more of her?"

"Unfortunately, no, I lost sight of her at Waterloo, and knowing the futility of doing anything further—I—I came back——"

Cleek made a little clicking sound indicative of mild despair.

"I wish to God you had stayed away all night," he said under his breath.

"But that's just what I did do," returned Sir Edgar wearily. "When I got back to Hampton Station, a little boy came running up, and told me that this telegram had been waiting for me at the post office. I didn't stop to question, I can tell you, I simply tore it open, and when I read it, I was over that platform and off again before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"

Cleek's eyes narrowed.

"What was in it; you don't happen to have kept it, I suppose?"

"As it happens, I have," said Sir Edgar, fumbling in his pocket and producing a crumpled ball of paper which Cleek took from his outstretched fingers.

"Hotel Central, come quick. Margaret," he read and Sir Edgar's voice broke in upon his thoughts in a high pitch of excitement:

"You can be sure I just rushed up there as fast as trains would carry me—only to find it a hoax. I waited about all night, and came back this morning, none the worse. But I'd like to lay hands on the man who sent me on that wild-goose chase."

Cleek looked at him for a brief second in silence, his face set, his chin cupped in the palm of his left hand. If this thing were true, it put Sir Edgar out of the affair altogether. But was it true? Was it not rather an attempt to establish an alibi, and thus throw dust in the eyes of the police? The hotel? Oh, yes, that part was easy, simplicity itself. He would go there and register, wait about for a girl whom he knew couldn't possibly be there, and then, after going up to the room, it would be the easiest thing in the world to step down unnoticed, thus getting back in time to have committed the deed. He recalled Jennifer's words: "Edgar—so he did leave——" Leave maybe—but what about the revolver? As for Constable Roberts' hypothesis that the young man had just arrived—why, he might well have been just leaving. And now this telegram! Cleek looked at it again, then gave vent to a low cry of astonishment.

"Hello," he said, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. This is an old telegram; look, here's the date, last Friday, by Jove!"

He held it before Sir Edgar's astonished gaze. "All the original words have been rubbed out," he continued as the young man stared at it. "You can see the roughened paper."

Then he turned on him suddenly.

"Now, my friend," he said, "considering that your revolver was found just near the body of the murdered man I think you will agree that this will take some explanation. Don't you think so?"

Sir Edgar started as though someone had stabbed him. A wave of colour suffused his face for a moment, then left it waxen white.

"Good God, you don't attempt to suggest that I——" he began, then appeared to lose the power of speaking altogether as he gazed into Cleek's stern eyes.

"I am not in the habit of suggesting," interrupted Cleek, "I am simply stating a fact which, as you know, is one that is in itself suspicious. It is useless also to blink at the fact that the real Miss Cheyne was murdered on that night when I found you wandering up and down the lane, with that same revolver in your pocket. Perhaps you can explain that also?"

"Heavens, man, but you don't think I committed still another murder," said Sir Edgar, incredulously. "I say, that's going a bit too far you know. I can understand a joke, but as to your thinking for one moment that I should do such a low-down dirty thing as to murder a woman, and an old one at that——"

Cleek laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Not so fast, my friend, not so fast," said he with a little laugh. "There's an old French proverb which says qui s'excuse, s'accuse. Perhaps you know it. But the evidence is strong against you. What about that revolver with the 'B' on it? Perhaps you'll deny that?"

"I do, most emphatically I do!" responded Sir Edgar with a little snort of indignation. "That belonged to the old woman herself, I snatched it from her, and——"

"Cheyne does not to my knowledge begin with a 'B'," threw in Cleek, quietly. "The revolver bears your initial and a jury is a difficult thing to convince when facts are strong."

"Stuff and nonsense!" spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. "You can have me arrested straight away, if you like, but whatever happens, I mean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night. You know where to find me when you want me." Turning angrily on his heel, he walked out, leaving Cleek smiling quietly to himself and rather liking this young spit-fire for the way in which he had risen to his fly.

"So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver-shot, does he? Now did he administer that prussic acid, or did he not?" was the next thought that passed through his mind.

He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station, where he hoped to meet Mr. Narkom.

It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he could see a little group of people advancing toward him, in the first and foremost of whom he recognized Ailsa.

She had been nearly heart-broken over the catastrophe which had overtaken the girl in whom she had hoped to have found a life-long friend, and her first act had been to visit Lady Brenton. She had done her best to raise Edgar's mother from the fit of deep depression which seemed to have settled over her like a cloud.

At that lady's request, Ailsa had consented to stay at the Towers, and accordingly had seen but little of the man to whom she instinctively turned for help and guidance.

Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her little start and the rose-red colour which suffused her face caused Lady Brenton, a woman still in the early forties, to look quickly in the same direction.

"My dear, is this another reporter?" she inquired, anxiously. She had an inveterate horror of the press at all times, and since she had seen the recent papers carrying such head-lines as "The Cheyne Court Affair—Further Developments—Murder in High Life" and similar personalities, she lived in perpetual dread of being pounced upon and interviewed.

"No, dear," responded Ailsa with a happy little laugh, "this is not a reporter, but a dear old friend of mine, Mr. George Headland. He was an old friend, too, of my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before his second marriage. I think he will be the only man who can explain this mysterious catastrophe. I wonder if you would think it a liberty if I asked to be allowed to introduce him to you?"

"Far from it, Ailsa," answered Lady Brenton, impetuously. "I wish I could persuade him to visit us, it might cheer us up. Not that I want to be cheered exactly, but the thought of that child and the sight of poor Edgar's face almost breaks my heart. And I am so tired this morning——"

"I daresay you are," put in Ailsa, quietly. "You did not sleep well, did you?"

Lady Brenton looked at her with a little angry flush.

"As it happens I did, Ailsa. That's a strange thing, for you know what bad nights I have had lately. But what made you ask?"

"Well, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the night, as well as the night before that. I thought of coming to see whether you were ill, and fell asleep myself first."

"Indeed?" Lady Brenton's face was a little pale, though her voice was quite calm and steady.

"It must have been imagination on your part, my dear child, for I slept splendidly. But don't let us talk over last night." She turned impulsively, her voice shaking with emotion. "It's no use, I ought to be sorry for any human death—and to think of that poor old woman being murdered more than a month ago is too terrible—but I can't! I can only think that the obstacle to my boy's happiness is removed, if we can only find Margaret. I know it is very wrong of me to say so."

Ailsa pressed her arm in tender sympathy, but before she could reply Cleek had advanced to within speaking distance, and Ailsa was greeting him.

Another minute, mutual introductions having been made, Cleek found himself looking into the eyes of a handsome woman with hair but slightly gray, and with a purely cut, patrician face faintly lined, now pale as though from a sleepless night.

It did not take Cleek long to note that she was suffering from some intense anxiety, though her smile was none the less genuine, especially when a minute later she was joined by Sir Edgar, who was apparently by no means pleased to see the man who but a brief half hour ago had practically accused him of murder.

Suddenly the sound of light footsteps fell on their ears and, turning, Cleek saw Jennifer Wynne running after them.

"Dear Lady Brenton," she said, rather affectedly, as soon as she had got within talking distance, "I am so thankful I found it; see, you left your scarf behind." In her hand she held a long gold lace scarf totally different in texture to that which Miss Wynne had worn herself on the preceding night, but alike in colour to the scrap which rested in Cleek's pocketbook. As he noted this fact, and saw the sudden unconcealed terror showing on Lady Brenton's delicate face, he sucked in his breath sharply, switched round on his heel, and grew silent.

It was only for a brief second that her face showed any trace of that ill-concealed terror, then Lady Brenton was profuse in thanks and begged the girl to come back with her to The Towers.

"It is so sweet of you, dear Lady Brenton," purred Miss Jennifer, softly, "but I feel sure both you and Sir Edgar are too worried to need poor little me. I only thought you ought to have your scarf in safe keeping, so much depends on it now, you know," and with this parting shot, Miss Wynne turned and went back.

"Do come back to the house with us, Mr. Headland," Lady Brenton said, impulsively.

Cleek, only too willing to accept, soon found himself at Ailsa's side, swinging down the long, leafy lane.

Lady Brenton was a tactful woman, and after having glanced once or twice in their direction, she smiled significantly at her son and dropped behind, on the plea of the narrowness of the lane, whispering a minute later in carefully lowered tones to Sir Edgar:

"A most distinguished man, Edgar, and if I know anything of love affairs, we shall be parting with our pleasant little neighbour for good and all before the summer is over. Did you see the man's eyes? Positively worshipping her. Ah, well, it is good to be young, and once this is over——"

But her own heart was like lead within her breast.