"When, how, who did it?" cried Cyril incoherently. "Give me the paper."

"Murder of Lord Wilmersley—disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he read. "Disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he repeated, as the paper fell from his limp hand.

"Here, get your master some whiskey; the shock has been too much for him," said Camp bell. "Mysterious disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," murmured Crichton, staring blankly in front of him.

"Here, drink this, old man; you'll be all right in a moment," said Campbell, pressing a glass into his hand.

Cyril emptied it automatically.

"The deuce take it!" he cried, covering his face with his hands.

"Shall I read you the particulars?" Campbell asked, taking the paper. Cyril nodded assent.

"'The body of Lord Wilmersley was found at seven o'clock this morning floating in the swimming bath at Geralton. It was at first thought that death had been caused by drowning, but on examination, a bullet wound was discovered over the heart. Search for the pistol with which the crime was committed has so far proved fruitless. The corpse was dressed in a long, Eastern garment frequently worn by the deceased. Lady Wilmersley's bedroom, which adjoins the swimming bath, was empty. The bed had not been slept in. A hurried search of the castle and grounds was at once made, but no trace of her ladyship has been discovered. It is feared that she also has been murdered and her body thrown into the lake, which is only a short distance from the castle. None of her wearing apparel is missing, even the dress and slippers she wore on the previous evening were found in a corner of her room. Robbery was probably the motive of the crime, as a small safe, which stands next to Lady Wilmersley's bed and contained her jewels, has been rifled. Whoever did this must, however, have known the combination, as the lock has not been tampered with. This adds to the mystery of the case. Lady Wilmersley is said to be mentally unbalanced. Arthur Edward Crichton, 9th Baron Wilmersley, was born—' here follows a history of your family, Cyril, you don't want to hear that. Well, what do you think of it?" asked Campbell.

"It's too horrible! I can't think," said Crichton.

"I don't believe Lady Wilmersley was murdered," said Campbell. "Why should a murderer have troubled to remove one body and not the other? Mark my words, it was his wife who killed Wilmersley and opened the safe."

"I don't believe it! I won't believe it!" cried Cyril. "Besides, how could she have got away without a dress or hat? Remember they make a point of the fact that none of her clothes are missing."

"In the first place, you can't believe everything you read in a newspaper; but even granting the correctness of that statement, what was there to prevent her having borrowed a dress from one of her maids? She must have had one, you know."

"No—no! It can't be, I tell you; I—" Cyril stopped abruptly.

"What's the matter with you? You look as guilty as though you had killed him yourself. I can't for the life of me see why you take the thing so terribly to heart. You didn't like your cousin and from what you yourself tell me, I fancy he is no great loss to any one, and you don't know his wife—widow, I mean."

"It is such a shock," stammered Cyril.

"Of course it's a shock, but you ought to think of your new duties. You will have to go to Geralton at once?"

"Yes, I suppose it will be expected of me," Cyril assented gloomily. "Peter, pack my things and find out when the next train leaves."

"Very well, my lord."

"And Guy, you will come with me, won't you? I really can't face this business alone. Besides, your legal knowledge may come in useful."

"I am awfully sorry, but I really can't come to-day. I've got to be in court this afternoon; but I'll come as soon as I can, if you really want me."

"Do!"

"Of course I want to be of use if I can, but a detective is really what you need."

"A detective?" gasped Cyril.

"Well, why not? Don't look as if I had suggested your hiring a camel!"

"Yes, of course not—I mean a detective is—would be—in fact—very useful," stammered Cyril. Why couldn't Guy mind his own business?

"Why not get one and take him down with you?" persisted Campbell.

"Oh, no!" Cyril hurriedly objected, "I don't think I had better do that. They may have one already. Shouldn't like to begin by hurting local feeling and—and all that, you know."

"Rot!"

"At any rate, I'm not going to engage any one till I've looked into the matter myself," said Cyril. "If I find I need a man, I'll wire."

Campbell, grumbling about unnecessary delay, let the matter drop.

Two hours later Cyril was speeding towards Newhaven.

Huddled in a corner of the railway carriage, he gave himself up to the gloomiest reflections. Was ever any one pursued by such persistent ill-luck? It seemed too hard that just as he began to see an end to his matrimonial troubles, he should have tumbled headlong into this terrible predicament. From the moment he heard of Lady Wilmersley's disappearance he had never had the shadow of a doubt but that it was she he had rescued that morning from the police. What was he going to do, now that he knew her identity? He must decide on a course of action at once. Wash his hands of her? No-o. He felt he couldn't do that—at least, not yet. But unless he immediately and voluntarily confessed the truth, who would believe him if it ever came to light? If it were discovered that he, the heir, had helped his cousin's murderess to escape—had posed as her husband, would any one, would any jury believe that chance alone had thrown them together? He might prove an alibi, but that would only save his life—not his honour. He would always be suspected of having instigated, if not actually committed, the murder.

If, however, by some miracle the truth did not leak out, what then? It would mean that from this day forward he would live in constant fear of detection. The very fact of her secret existence must necessarily poison his whole life. Lies, lies, lies would be his future portion. Was he willing to assume such a burden? Was it his duty to take upon himself the charge of a woman who was after all but a homicidal maniac? But was she a maniac? Again and again he went over each incident of their meeting, weighed her every word and action, and again he found it impossible to believe that her mind was unbalanced. Yet if she was not insane, what excuse could he find to explain her crime? Provocation? Yes, she had had that. She had been beaten, flogged. But even so, to kill! He had once been present when a murderer was sentenced: "To hang by the neck until you are dead," the words rang in his ears. That small white neck—no—never. Suddenly he realised that his path was irrevocably chosen. As long as she needed him, he would protect her to the uttermost of his ability. Even if his efforts proved futile, even if he ruined his life without saving hers, he felt he would never regret his decision.

"Newhaven."

It seemed centuries since he had left it that morning. Hiring a fly, he drove out to Geralton, a distance of nine miles. There the door was opened by the same butler who had admitted him five years previously. "It's Mr. Cyril!" he cried, falling back a step. "Why, sir, they all told us as 'ow you were in South Africa. But I bid you welcome, sir."

"Thank you. I am glad to see you again."

"Thank you, sir,—my lord, I mean, and please forgive your being received like this—but every one is so upset, there's no doing nothing with nobody. If you will step in 'ere, I'll call Mrs. Eversley, the 'ousekeeper."

"Is Mrs. Eversley still here? I remember her perfectly. She used to stuff me with doughnuts when I came here as a boy. Tell her I will see her presently."

"Very good, my lord."

"Now I want to hear all the particulars of the tragedy. The newspaper account was very meagre."

"Quite so, my lord," assented the butler.

"Lady Wilmersley has not been found?" asked Cyril.

"No, my lord. We've searched for her ladyship 'igh and low. Not a trace of her. And now every one says as 'ow she did it. But I'll never believe it—never. A gentle little lady, she was, and so easily frightened! Why, if my lord so much as looked at her sometimes, she'd fall a trembling, and 'e always so kind and devoted to 'er. 'E just doted on 'er, 'e did. I never saw nothing like it."

"If you don't believe her ladyship guilty, is there any one else you do suspect?"

"No, my lord, I can't say as I do." He spoke regretfully. "It was a burglar, I believe. I think the detective——"

"What detective?" interrupted Cyril.

"His name is Judson; 'e comes from London and they say as 'e can find a murderer just by looking at the chair 'e sat in."

"Who sent for him? The police?"

"No, it was Mr. Twombley of Crofton. He said we owed it to 'er ladyship to hemploy the best talent."

"Where is the detective now?"

"'E's in the long drawing-room with Mr. Twombley."

"Has the inquest been held?"

"No, the corpse won't be sat on till to-morrow morning."

"Show me the way to the drawing-room. I don't quite remember it."

The butler preceded him across the hall and throwing open a door announced in a loud voice:

"Lord Wilmersley."

The effect was electrical. Four men who had been deep in conversation turned and stared open-mouthed at Cyril, and one of them, a short fat man in clerical dress, dropped his teacup in his agitation.

"Who?" bellowed a tall, florid old gentleman.

The butler, secretly delighted at having produced such a sensation, closed the door discreetly after him.

"I don't wonder you are surprised to see me. You thought I was with my regiment."

"So you're the little shaver I knew as a boy? Well, you've grown a bit since then. Hah, hah." Then, recollecting the solemnity of the occasion, he subdued his voice. "I'm Twombley, friend of your father's, you know, and this is Mr. James, your vicar, and this is Mr. Tinker, the coroner, and this is Judson, celebrated detective, you know. I sent for him. Hope you approve? Terrible business, what?"

"It has been a great shock to me, and I am very glad to have Judson's assistance," replied Cyril, casting a searching and apprehensive glance at the detective.

He was a small, clean-shaven man with short, grey hair, grey eyebrows, grey complexion, dressed in a grey tweed suit. His features were peculiarly indefinite. His half-closed eyes, lying in the shadow of the overhanging brows, were fringed with light eyelashes and gave no accent to his expressionless face.

At all events, thought Cyril, he doesn't look very alarming, but then, you never can tell.

"I must condole with you on the unexpected loss of a relative, who was in every way an honour to his name and his position," said the vicar, holding out a podgy hand.

Cyril was so taken aback at this unexpected tribute to his cousin's memory that he was only able to murmur a discreet "Thank you."

"The late Lord Wilmersley," said the coroner, "was a most public-spirited man and is a loss to the county."

"Quite so, quite so," assented Mr. Twombley. "Gave a good bit to the hunt, though he never hunted. Pretty decent of him, you know. You hunt, of course?"

"I haven't done much of it lately, but I shall certainly do so in future."

"Your cousin," interrupted the vicar, "was a man of deep religious convictions. His long stay in heathen lands had only strengthened his devotion to the true faith. His pew was never empty and he subscribed liberally to many charities."

By Jove, thought poor Cyril, his cousin had evidently been a paragon. It seemed incredible.

"I see it will be difficult to fill his place," he said aloud. "But I will do my best."

Twombley clapped him heartily on the back. "Oh, you'll do all right, my boy, and then, you know, you'll open the castle. The place has been like a prison since Wilmersley's marriage."

"No one regretted that as much as Lord Wilmersley," said the vicar. "He often spoke to me about it. But he had the choice between placing Lady Wilmersley in an institution or turning the castle into an asylum. He chose the latter alternative, although it was a great sacrifice. I have rarely known so agreeable a man or one so suited to shine in any company. It was unpardonable of Lady Upton to have allowed him to marry without warning him of her granddaughter's condition. But he never had a word of blame for her."

"It was certainly a pity he did not have Lady Wilmersley put under proper restraint. If he had only done so, he would be alive now," said the coroner.

"So you believe that she murdered his lordship?"

"Undoubtedly. Who else could have done it? Who else had a motive for doing it. My theory is that her ladyship wanted to escape, that his lordship tried to prevent her, and so she shot him. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Judson?"

"It is impossible for me to express an opinion at present. I have not had time to collect enough data," replied the detective pompously.

"He puts on such a lot of side, I believe he's an ass," thought Cyril, heaving a sigh of relief. "But what about the missing jewels?" he said aloud. "Their disappearance certainly provides a motive for the crime?"

"Yes, but only Lord and Lady Wilmersley knew the combination of the safe."

"Who says so?"

"All the servants are agreed as to that. Besides, a burglar would hardly have overlooked the drawers of Lord Wilmersley's desk, which contained about £300 in notes."

"The thief may not have got as far as the library. Lady Wilmersley occupied the blue room, I suppose."

"Not at all. At the time of his marriage Lord Wilmersley ordered a suite of rooms on the ground floor prepared for his bride's reception," replied the vicar.

"And this swimming-bath? Where is that? There was none when I was here as a child."

"No, it was built for Lady Wilmersley and adjoins her private apartments," said the vicar.

"But all these rooms are on the ground floor. It must be an easy matter to enter them. Consequently——"

"Easy!" interrupted Twombley; "not a bit of it! But come and see for yourself."

Crossing the hall they paused at a door. "Now this door and that one next to it, which is the door of Lady Wilmersley's bedroom," said the coroner, "are the only ones in this wing which communicate with the rest of the castle, and both were usually kept locked, not only at night, but during the daytime. You will please notice, my lord," continued the coroner, as they entered the library, "that both doors are fitted with an ingenious device, by means of which they can be bolted and unbolted from several seats in this room and from the divans in the swimming-bath. Only in the early morning were the housemaids admitted to these rooms; after that no one but Mustapha, Lord Wilmersley's Turkish valet, ever crossed the threshold, unless with his lordship's express permission."

Twombley hurried him through the library.

"You can look this room over later; I want you first to see the swimming-bath."

Cyril found himself in an immense and lofty hall, constructed entirely of white marble and lighted by innumerable jewelled lamps, whose multi-coloured lights were reflected in the transparent waters of a pool, from the middle of which rose and splashed a fountain. Divans covered with soft cushions and several small tables laden with pipes, houkahs, cigarettes, etc., were placed at intervals around the sides of the bath. On one of the tables, Cyril noticed that two coffee-cups were still standing and by the side of a divan lay a long Turkish pipe. The floor was strewn with rare skins. A profusion of tropical plants imparted a heavy perfume to the air, which was warm and moist. Cyril blinked his eyes; he felt as if he had suddenly been transported to the palace of Aladdin.

"Rum place, what?" said Twombley, looking about him with evident disfavour. "To be shut in here for three years would be enough to drive any one crazy, I say."

"You will notice," said the coroner, "that the only entrance to the bath is through the library or her ladyship's bedroom. No one could have let himself down through the skylight, as it is protected by iron bars."

"I see."

"It was here and in the library that Lord Wilmersley spent his time, and it was here in the right-hand corner of the bath that his body was discovered this morning by one of the housemaids. The spot, as you see, is exactly opposite her ladyship's door and that door was found open, just as it stands at present. Now the housemaids swear that they always found it closed and it is their belief that his lordship used to lock her ladyship in her rooms before retiring to his own quarters for the night. At all events they were never allowed to see her ladyship or enter her apartments unless his lordship or her ladyship's maid was also present."

"At about what time is Lord Wilmersley supposed to have been killed?" asked Cyril after a slight pause.

"Judging from the condition of the body, the doctor thinks that the murder was committed between eleven and twelve P.M.," replied the coroner; "and whoever fired the shot must have stood five or six feet from Lord Wilmersley; in all probability, therefore, in the doorway of the bedroom. This is the room. Nothing has been touched, and you see that neither here nor in the swimming-bath are there signs of a struggle."

"The door leading into the hall was found locked?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then how did the house-man enter?"

"By means of a pass-key."

"Where does that other door lead to?" asked Cyril, pointing to a door to his left.

"Into the sitting-room," replied the coroner, throwing it open. "It was here, I am told, that Lady Wilmersley usually spent the morning."

It was a large, pleasant room panelled in white. A few faded pastels of by-gone beauties ornamented the walls. A gilt cage in which slumbered a canary hung in one of the windows. Cyril looked eagerly about him for some traces of its late occupant's personality; but except for a piece of unfinished needlework, lying on a small table near the fireplace, there was nothing to betray the owner's taste or occupations.

"And there is no way out of this room except through the bedroom?"

"None."

"No secret door?"

"No, my lord. Mr. Judson thought of that and has tapped the walls."

"But the windows?"

"These windows as well as those in the bedroom are fitted with heavy iron bars. Look," he said.

"Who was the last person known to have seen Lord Wilmersley alive?"

"Mustapha. He carried coffee into the swimming-bath at a quarter past nine, as was his daily custom."

"And he noticed nothing unusual?"

"Nothing. And he swears that in passing out through the library he heard the bolt click behind him."

"What sort of a person is Mustapha?"

"Lord Wilmersley brought him back with him when he returned from the East. He had the greatest confidence in him," said the vicar.

"Do you know what his fellow-servants think of him," inquired Cyril, addressing the coroner.

"He kept very much to himself. I fancy he is not a favourite, but no one has actually said anything against him."

"Insular prejudice!" cried the vicar. "How few of us are able to overcome our inborn British suspicion of the foreigner!"

"Now will you examine the library?" asked the coroner. "See, here is his lordship's desk. There are the drawers in which the £300 were found, and yet any one could have picked that lock."

"Where does that door lead to?"

"Into Lord Wilmersley's bedroom, the window of which is also provided with iron bars."

"And that room has no exit but this?"

"None, my lord. If the murderer came from outside, he must have got in through one of these windows, which are the only ones in this wing which have no protection, and this one was found ajar—but it may have been used only as an exit, not as an entrance."

Cyril looked out. Even a woman would have no difficulty in jumping to the ground.

"But it couldn't have been a burglar," said the vicar, "for what object could a thief have for destroying a portrait?"

"Destroying what portrait?" inquired Cyril.

"Oh, didn't you know that her ladyship's portrait was found cut into shreds?" said the coroner.

"And a pair of Lady Wilmersley's scissors lay on the floor in front of it," added the vicar.

"Let me see it," cried Cyril.

Going to a corner of the room the vicar pulled aside a velvet curtain behind which hung the wreck of a picture. The canvas was slashed from top to bottom. No trace of the face was left; only a small piece of fair hair was still distinguishable.

Cyril grasped Twombley's arm. Fair! And his mysterious protÉgÉe was dark!

"What—what was the colour of Lady Wilmersley's hair?" He almost stuttered with excitement.

"A very pale yellow," replied the coroner.

"Why do you ask?" inquired the detective.

For the convenience of my readers I give a diagram of Lord and Lady Wilmersley's apartments.