Captain Huxham's death having been legally relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes, his gnarled old body was committed to a damp grave in Marshely cemetery. There was a vast concourse of people from far and near to assist at the funeral of one who had been so mysteriously murdered. So greatly had the strangeness of the deed appealed to the imagination of metropolitan readers, that many London reporters came down to see the last of the case, and if possible to begin it again by making enquiries. But ask as they might, they could learn nothing. They were therefore compelled to content themselves with picturesque descriptions of the ancient Manor-house amidst its corn-fields, and with inaccurately lurid accounts of the late owner's career as a sailor.

Mrs. Coppersley went to the funeral as chief mourner, as Bella resolutely declined to do so. She was sorry for her tyrannical father's violent death, but being very human, found it difficult to forgive him for the way in which he had behaved. He had bullied her and shut her in her room, and finally had drugged her by stealth. But as it turned out it was just as well that he had done so, as thereby she was able to prove that she knew nothing of the crime, even though she was alone in the house. Then again, there was the other side of the question to take—that if Huxham had not administered the laudanum he might have been alive and well at the moment. It seemed to Bella, overstrung with nerves, that some higher powers had dealt out a punishment to the Captain for crimes committed but undiscovered. Certainly she agreed with Tunks that her father had some dark secret in his mind, which led him to isolate himself in the midst of the corn.

However, he was dead and buried, so all debts were paid, and Bella sitting in the vast drawing-room of the Manor-house with a church-service open on her lap, tried hard to forget Huxham's bad traits of character, and to remember his good ones. This was somewhat difficult, as the captain had few engaging qualities. But Bella recalled that he had been kind in a gruff sort of way and had never grudged her the best of food and the gaudiest of frocks. Huxham had been one of those so-called good people, who are amiable so long as everything is done according to their liking; but who display the tyrant when crossed. But on the whole he might have been worse, and after all, as she anxiously kept in mind, he was her father.

The room wherein she sat, with the blinds down, was opposite the study and was a large apartment sparsely furnished. Huxham did not care for a drawing-room, as he preferred his den, but Mrs. Coppersley had bothered him incessantly until he provided her with furniture for the place. She selected the furniture herself, and what with her brother's stinginess and her own bad taste, the result was woefully bad. The room, spacious, lofty and stately, was decorated as beautifully as was the study, and required the most exquisite furniture to enhance its faded splendours. But Mrs. Coppersley had bought a magenta-hued sofa and many magenta-covered chairs, together with a cheap sideboard, so sticky as to look like a fly catcher, and two arm chairs of emerald green. The inlaid floor she had covered with lineoleum, diapered white and black, and her artistic taste had led her to paint the mellow oak panelling with pink Aspinall's enamel. As the curtains of the many windows were yellow, and the blinds blue, the effect was disastrous, and suggestive of a paint-box. An artist would have died of the confusion of tints, and the barbarism of destroying the oak panels, but Mrs. Coppersley was more than satisfied with the result, and when seated in the drawing-room on Sunday felt herself to be quite the lady.

At the present moment Bella's nerves were less troubled than usual; the blinds were down in sympathy with the funeral, and a dim twilight pervaded the room, hiding more or less the atrocious grandeur. She sat in one of the green arm-chairs near the fire-place, reading the burial service and listening to the solemn tolling of the bell. But after a time she dropped the book on her lap and leaned back to close her eyes and reflect on her grave position. If only she had not seen Cyril on that night she could have married in ignorance that he had anything to do with the death of her father; but, enlightened as she was, it appeared impossible that she should become his wife. She had said nothing of his visit at the inquest, but the hideous doubt remained in her mind, although she strove to banish it by assuring herself over and over again that Lister could have had no hand in the matter. But how could she prove his innocence?

She was alone in that sinister house, and although it was bright sunshine out of doors she felt scared. The cool dim room, the dreary booming of the distant bell, the impressive words of the burial service which she had just been reading—all these things united in a weird appeal to her psychic instincts, to those mysterious senses which deal with the unseen. In the arm-chair she sat with closed eyes strung up to breaking-point, and felt that if the psychic influence which seemed to control her became more insistent, she would scream. A thought flashed across her mind that her father was walking that dim, chill apartment, trying to communicate the truth; and in her nervous excitement she could almost have sworn that she heard the heavy tread of his feet.

Thus, when she really did hear a light footstep in the entrance hall without, she uttered a piercing scream, and staggered to her feet. The hall door, she knew, had been left open since the coffin had been carried down the path between the standing corn, so that anyone could enter. Perhaps the assassin had come back to review the scene of his crime, or to commit another.

White-faced and panic-stricken by the power of her own emotions engendered by the circumstances, she clung to the back of the arm-chair, straining her eyes towards the door. At the sound of her thin high-pitched scream the footsteps had ceased for a moment, as though the intruder was listening. Now they recommenced and drew near the outside of the door. Unable to utter a sound Bella stared through the dim lights and saw the door open cautiously. A face looked in and the eyes set in the face blinked in the semi-gloom. Then the door opened widely and Cyril Lister stepped in.

"Oh, my darling!" With a sudden rush of relief Bella ran rapidly towards the door to throw herself into her lover's arms. Then a gruesome memory of that sinister visit made her falter and pause half way. Cyril closed the door and stood where he was, holding out his hungry arms.

"Dearest," he said softly. "Oh, my poor girl."

But Bella did not move; she stood looking at him as though fascinated. He wore a white drill suit made, tropic-fashion, high at the neck, with white shoes, and a panama hat. His white-clothed figure accentuated the twilight of the room, which now looked brown and grim. Considering that her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave, Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless—ah, unless. "Oh!"—she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly—"don't come near me—don't come near me."

"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know me?"

"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair. "Perhaps I know you too well."

"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised. "Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during the week. I had to go to Paris to see a—a friend of mine."

She noted the hesitation and shivered. "When did you go?"

Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your father found us in the corn-field."

"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"

"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"

The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.

"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral, but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."

"You—you—you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.

"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your father, and a last tribute of respect——"

"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me—to me, of all people?"

Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold, dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every allowance for what you have gone through, but——"

"But you know, you understand."

"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.

"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never——"

"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"

"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."

"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"—he grasped her wrists tighter as she strove to release herself—"not till you explain."

"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"

Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"

"My father. You—you——"

"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.

"Oh"—she wrung her hands helplessly—"I saw you; I saw you."

"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.

"I saw you enter the house—this house."

"Saw me—enter this house? When?"

"On the night my father was murdered—at eight o'clock."

"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think trouble has turned your head, Bella."

The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light. Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and—and—"You can prove your innocence?"

"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.

"Of—of—the—the—murder," she faltered.

Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not serious?"

"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."

"And you accuse me of murdering your father?"

"No, no! Really, I don't accuse you of actually—that is, of really—but I saw you enter this house at eight o'clock, or a little after, on that night. I intended to come down, thinking you and my father might quarrel, but I drank the tea—you must have seen about the tea at the inquest—that is, in the report given in the papers. Then I fell asleep, and woke to hear that my father was dead. But I never betrayed you, Cyril. God is my witness that I have held my tongue."

Lister passed his hand across his forehead, and fell helplessly into a near chair. "You accuse me of murdering your father?" he said again.

"No, no;" she repeated feverishly, "but I saw you—you looked up—you wore the grey clothes, as you had done in the afternoon when father interrupted us."

"Bella! Bella! You must have been dreaming, or the drug——"

"I was not dreaming," she interrupted vehemently, "and I saw you before I drank the drugged tea. I called to you, and you looked up; but you entered the house without making any sign of recognition. Then I fell asleep, and—and—oh,—my dear"—she flung herself down at his feet and seized his hand. "What took place between my father and you? I'm sure you did not kill him. I am quite sure of that, and, remember, I held my tongue. Yes, I held——"

"Oh," groaned the young man, looking down into her agitated face. "I am losing my reason. You will shortly persuade me that I killed——"

"But you did not—you did not. Ah, never say that you did."

"No," said Lister shortly, and rose so suddenly as to let her fall, "and if you believe me to be a murderer, we had better part."

"I don't! I don't!" she wailed, stretching out her hands, as he strode towards the door. "Oh, Cyril, don't leave me. You are all I have."

Lister was in a white heat with rage, and stood fumbling at the door. But a backward glance at her pale face cooled him somewhat. He recognised that he was in the presence of some mystery, and that it was necessary for his own peace of mind, as for Bella's, to probe the mystery to the bottom. On the impulse of the moment he walked back, and lifting her, placed her again in the arm-chair. Then he knelt beside her, and took her hands. "Darling," he said, softly and firmly, "I swear to you, what I would not swear to any living creature, that I am innocent. If anyone but you had accused me, I should have——"

"Cyril! Cyril!" She wreathed her arms round his neck, "I only fancied, but I really did not think that——"

He removed her arms. "You should believe in my innocence in the face of all evidence," he said sternly.

"But my own eyes," she faltered.

He frowned. "That certainly is puzzling; still, the drug——"

"I saw you enter the house before I drunk the tea," she protested. "I told you that before."

"Your senses were quite clear?"

"Perfectly clear. And I thought that you had come to try and induce my father to consent to our marriage."

"Strange," muttered the young man. "I was not near the house."

"Are you sure? are you sure?"

"Oh!" Lister's tone was highly exasperated. "You will drive me mad, talking in this way. Hearken," he added, speaking calmer, "when I left you and Captain Huxham in the corn-field, I went straight back to my lodgings. There I found a letter referring to the thousand pounds I wished to borrow. I had to see the friend who was willing to lend it to me on that night. I therefore went to London by the six o'clock train. My landlady can prove that I left the house; the flyman can prove that I drove to the local station; the ticket office there that I bought a ticket, and the guard of the train shut me himself in a first-class compartment. That is evidence enough, I fancy."

"Yes. Yes, for me, but——"

"But I might have sneaked back, I suppose you mean?" he said bitterly, and rising to walk the floor. "I can prove an alibi easily. At eight o'clock I was at my friend's rooms in Duke Street, St. James's, as his man can swear. He had gone to Paris, and I arranged to follow. I went to the theatre, and to dinner with two friends of mine, and did not leave them until one in the morning, when I returned to my hotel. The murder took place at eleven, or between eight and eleven, so I can easily prove that I was not here. Next morning I went to Paris, and got the money from my friend. I lingered there with him, and only returned yesterday, to learn that your father was dead. Then I came down here this morning to—meet with this reception."

"Cyril! Cyril! Don't be hard on me."

"Are you not hard yourself?" he retorted. "How can I love a woman who doubts me? Besides, robbery was the motive for the commission of the crime. Am I likely to stab an old man, and then rob him?"

"No, I never believed, and yet——"

"And yet what?" he asked curtly.

"You—you—wanted a thousand pounds."

"Oh"—his lip curled—"and you believed that I robbed your father's safe to get it. Unfortunately, I understood, from your aunt's evidence at the inquest, that only one hundred pounds in gold were in the safe, so I must have committed a brutal murder needlessly."

"I never said that you murdered my father," cried Bella despairingly.

"You inferred as much," he retorted cuttingly; "also that I robbed——"

"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, now thoroughly believing him to be completely innocent, and trying woman-like to recover her position. "But, Cyril, listen to me, and you will see that as things look I was justified——"

"Nothing can justify your believing me to be guilty of a double crime."

Bella bowed her proud head. "I can see that now," she said humbly.

"You should have seen it before," he replied harshly.

She raised her head, and looked at him indignantly, bringing into play the powerful weapon of sex. "You give me no opportunity of defending myself," she said, in the offended tone of a woman wronged.

"I ask your pardon, and give you the opportunity now," he replied coldly.

"I saw you enter the house," she repeated somewhat weakly.

"That is impossible," he rejoined briefly.

"Oh!" She clasped her hands together. "What is the use of saying that? It was not you, since I firmly believe what you tell me; all the same——"

Cyril sprang forward, seized her hands, and looked deep into her eyes "You believe me, then?"

"Yes, I do. But if the man was not you, he must have been your double."

"Was he so like me, then?"

"Exactly like you. Don't I tell you, Cyril, that I leaned out of the window and spoke to the man. I called him by your name."

"What did he do?"

"He looked up, but making no sign of recognition stepped into the house, as the door was not locked. I never believed for one moment that it was not you, and resolved to clamber out of the window to be present at the interview. Then I drank the drugged tea, and——" she made a gesture of despair—"you know the rest."

"How was the man dressed?"

"In a grey suit, just as you wore in the afternoon."

"You saw the face?"

"I saw it very plainly, although the twilight was growing darker at the time. But I could have sworn it was your face. Would I have spoken to the man had I not believed him to be you?"

"No, and yet"—Cyril stopped, and tugged at his moustache. His face had grown pale, and he looked decidedly worried. "The man was of my height?"

"He was like you in every respect. Perhaps if I had seen him in broad daylight I might have recognised my mistake unless—oh, Cyril, could it have been your ghost?"

"No," said Lister, in a strangled voice, "don't be absurd. I have an idea that——" he made for the door. "There's nothing more to say."

"Cyril, will you leave me? Won't you kiss——"

"There's nothing more to say," said Lister, now deadly pale, and walked abruptly out of the dim room. Bella fell back in the chair and wept. All was over.