"My lord."

Cyril shook himself reluctantly awake.

"Sorry to disturb you, but this 'as just come," said Peter, holding out a tray on which lay an opened telegram. His expression was so tragic that Cyril started up and seized the message.

It was addressed to Peter Thompkins, Geralton Castle, Newhaven, and read: "Change for the better. Your presence necessary." Signed, "Stuart-Smith."

"Why, that is good news!" cried Cyril greatly relieved. "What are you pulling such a long face for?"

"You call it good news that you haven't got rid of that young woman yet?" exclaimed Peter. "This Stuart-Smith, whoever he may be, who is wiring you to come to 'er, thinks she's your wife, doesn't he? That was bad enough when you were just Mr. Crichton, but now it's just hawful. A Lady Wilmersley can't be hid as a Mrs. Crichton could, begging your pardon. Oh, it'll all come out, so it will, and you'll be 'ad up for bigamy, like as not!" Peter almost groaned.

"Nonsense! As soon as the young lady recovers, she will join her friends and no one will be any the wiser."

Peter shook his head incredulously.

"Well, my lord, let's 'ope so! But what answer am I to send to this telegram? You can't leave the castle now."

"It would certainly be inconvenient," agreed his master.

"If you did, you'd be followed, my lord."

"What do you mean? The police can't be such fools as all that."

"'Tisn't the police, my lord. It's those men from the newspapers. The castle is full of them; they're nosing about heverywhere; there's not one of us as hasn't been pestered with the fellows. It's what you are like, what are you doing, what 'ave you done, and a lot more foolish questions hever since we set foot here yesterday afternoon. And 'we'll pay you well,' they say. Of course, I've not opened my mouth to them, but they're that persistent, they'll follow you to the end of the earth if you should leave the castle unexpectedly."

This was a complication that had not occurred to Cyril, and yet he felt he ought to have foreseen it. What was to be done? He couldn't abandon the girl. Suddenly Stuart-Smith's stern face and uncompromising upper lip rose vividly before him. Even if he wished to do so, the doctor would never allow him to ignore his supposed wife. If he did not answer his summons in person, Smith would certainly put the worst interpretation on his absence. He would argue that only a brute would neglect a wife who was lying seriously ill and the fact that the girl had been flogged could also be remembered against him. Dr. Smith was capable of taking drastic measures to force him into performing what he considered the latter's obvious duty.

Cyril did not know what to do. He had only a choice of evils. If he went, he would surely be followed and the girl's existence and hiding-place discovered. That would be fatal not only to him but to her, for she had feared detection above all things—why, he could not even surmise—he no longer even cared; but he had promised to protect her and meant to do so.

On the other hand, if he did not go, he ran the risk of the doctor's publishing the girl's whereabouts. Still, it was by no means certain he would do so, and if he wrote Smith a diplomatic letter, he might succeed in persuading him that it was best for the girl if he stayed away a day longer. Yes, that was the thing to do. Hastily throwing on a dressing-gown, he sat down at the desk. It was a difficult letter to write and he destroyed many sheets before he was finally satisfied. This was the result of his efforts:

"Dear Dr. Stuart-Smith:

"I am infinitely relieved that your patient is better. As you addressed your wire here, I gather that you know of the tragic occurrence, which has kept me from her side. It is impossible for me to leave before the funeral without explaining my mission, and this I am very loath to do, as I am more than ever anxious to keep her malady a secret. Dr. Monet has always believed in the possibility of a cure, and as long as there is a chance of that, I am sure you will agree with me that I ought to make every sacrifice to protect her from gossip. If she did recover and her illness became known, it would greatly handicap her in her new life. Having to stay away from her would be even more distressing to me than it is if I could flatter myself that my presence would have a good effect upon her. I am sure, however, that such would not be the case.

"I shall return to London late to-morrow afternoon and will telephone you immediately on my arrival.

"I am sending this by a trustworthy servant, who will bring me your answer. I am most anxious to hear what you think of your patient's condition, mentally as well as physically. I am sure she could not be in better hands."

Then Cyril hesitated. What should he sign himself? Thompkins? No, he wished to inspire confidence; his own name would be better. So with a firm hand he wrote "Wilmersley."

It was the first time he had used his new signature and he heartily wished it had not been appended to such a document.

"Now, Peter," he said, "you must take the next train to London and carry this to Dr. Stuart-Smith. If he is not at the nursing home, telephone to his house and find out where he is. The letter must be delivered as soon as possible and you are to wait for a reply. If the doctor asks you any questions, answer as briefly as possible. In order to avoid comment you had better let it be known that you are going up to town to do some shopping for me. Buy something—anything. I want you also to call at the lodgings and tell them we shall return to-morrow. If you are followed, which I can't believe you will be, this will allay suspicion. Take a taxi and get back as soon as possible. Don't drive directly to the Home. You may mention to the doctor that I am extremely anxious about Mrs. Thompkins."

"Very good, my lord."

"Throw the sheets I have scribbled on into the fire and the blotting paper as well," ordered Cyril.

He felt rather proud of having thought of this detail, but with detectives and pressmen prowling around he must run no risks. It was with a very perturbed mind that Cyril finally went down to breakfast.

"Mrs. Eversley would like to speak to you, my lord, as soon as convenient," said Douglas as his master rose from the table. Cyril fancied he detected a gleam of suppressed excitement in the butler's eye.

"I'll see her at once," Cyril answered.

A stout, respectable-looking woman hesitated in the doorway.

"Come in, Mrs. Eversley," cried Cyril. "I'm glad to see you again. I've never forgotten you or your doughnuts."

The troubled face broke into a pleased smile as the woman dropped a courtesy.

"It's very kind of you to remember them, my lord, very kind indeed, and glad I am to see you again." The smile vanished. "This is a terrible business, my lord."

"Terrible," assented Cyril.

"His poor lordship! Mrs. Valdriguez has said for months and months that something like this was sure to happen some day."

"Do you mean to say that she prophesied that her ladyship would kill his lordship?" exclaimed Cyril.

"Yes, my lord, indeed she did! It made me feel that queer when it really 'appened."

"I should think so. It's most extraordinary."

"But begging your pardon, my lord, there is something special as made me ask to speak to you—something I thought you ought to know immediately."

"What is it?" Cyril had felt that some new trouble was brewing.

"One of the servants has disappeared, my lord."

"Disappeared? How? When?"

"Perhaps I'm making too much of it, but this murder has that upset me that I'm afraid of my own shadow and I says to myself, says I: 'Don't wait; go and tell his lordship at once and he'll know whether it is important or not.'"

"You did perfectly right. But who has disappeared?"

"Priscilla Prentice and perhaps she hasn't disappeared at all. This is how it is: The day before yesterday——"

"The day of the murder?" asked Cyril.

"Yes, my lord. Prentice came to me and asked if she could go to Newhaven to see a cousin she has there. The cousin is ill—leastways so she told me—and she wanted as a great favour to be allowed to spend the night with her, and she promised to come back by the carrier early next morning. It seemed all right, so I gave her permission and off she goes. Then yesterday this dreadful thing happened and Prentice went clean out of my head. I never thought of her again till breakfast this morning when Mr. Douglas says to me: 'Why, wherever is Miss Prentice?' You could 'ave knocked me down with a feather, I was that taken aback! So I says, 'Whatever can 'ave happened to her?'"

"When she heard of the murder, she may have taken fright. She may be waiting to return to the castle till the inquest and funeral are over," suggested Cyril.

"Then she ought at least to have sent word. Besides she should have got back before she could have heard of the murder."

"You had better send to the cousin's and find out if she is there. She may have been taken ill and had nobody to send a message by."

"We none of us know whereabouts this cousin lives, my lord."

"Newhaven is not a large place. It can't be difficult to find her."

"But we don't know her name, my lord."

"That certainly complicates matters. How long has this girl been at the castle?"

"Six months, my lord."

"Who did you get her from?"

"I advertised for her, my lord. Mrs. Valdriguez's eyes are not what they were and so she 'ad to have somebody to do the mending. I must say foreigners sew beautifully, so it was some time before I could get any one whose work suited Mrs. Valdriguez."

"What references did the girl give?"

"It was this way, my lord. She's very young, and this is her first place. But she was excellently recommended by Mr. Vaughan, vicar of Plumtree, who wrote that she was a most respectable girl and that he could vouch for her character. Those are his very words, my lord."

"That certainly sounded satisfactory."

"I'm glad you think so, my lord. So she came. Such a nice young woman she seemed, so 'ard-working and conscientious; one who kept 'erself to 'erself; never a word with the men—never, though she is so pretty."

"Oh, she is pretty, is she?" A faint but horrible suspicion flashed through Cyril's mind.

"Yes, my lord, as pretty as a picture."

"What does she look like?"

"She is tall and slight with dark hair and blue eyes," Mrs. Eversley answered. She was evidently taken aback at her master's interest in a servant's appearance and a certain reserve crept into her voice.

"Could she—would it be possible to mistake her for a lady?" stammered Cyril.

Mrs. Eversley started.

"Well, my lord, it's strange you should ask that, for Douglas, he always has said, 'Mark my words, Miss Prentice isn't what she seems,' and I must say she is very superior, very."

It wasn't, it couldn't be possible, thought Cyril; and yet——

"Did she see much of her ladyship?" he asked.

"Lately, Mrs. Valdriguez, seeing as what she was such a quiet girl, has allowed her to put the things she has mended back into her ladyship's room, and I know her ladyship has spoken to her, but how often she has done so I couldn't really say. Prentice didn't talk much."

"Did she seem much interested in her ladyship?"

"At first very much so. If we were talking about her ladyship, she would always stay and listen. Once, when one of the housemaids 'ad said something about her being crazy, I think, Prentice got quite excited, and when Mrs. Valdriguez had left the room, she said to me, 'I don't believe there is anything the matter with her ladyship; I think it just cruel the way she is kept locked up!' Begging your pardon, my lord, those were her very words. She made me promise not to repeat what she had said—least of all to Mrs. Valdriguez, and I never have, not till this minute."

"Did she ever suggest that she would like to help her ladyship to escape?"

"Why, my lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Eversley, staring at her master in astonishment. "That's just what she did do, just once—oh, you don't think she did it! And yet that's what they're all saying——"

"Is anything missing from her room?" he asked.

"I can't say, my lord; her trunk is locked and she took a small bag with her. But there are things in the drawers and a skirt and a pair of shoes in the wardrobe."

"From the appearance of the room, therefore, you should judge that she intended to return?"

"Ye-es, my lord—and yet I must say, I was surprised to see so few things about, and the skirt and shoes were very shabby."

"I suppose that by this time every one knows the girl is missing?" Cyril asked.

"The upper servants do, and the detective was after me to tell him all about her, but I wouldn't say a word till I had asked what your lordship's wishes are."

"I thought Judson had left the castle?"

"So he has, my lord; this is the man from Scotland Yard. Griggs is his name. He was 'ere before Judson, but he had left the castle before you arrived."

Impossible even to attempt, to keep her disappearance a secret, thought Cyril. After all, perhaps she was not his protÉgÉe. He was always jumping at erroneous conclusions, and a description is so misleading. On the other hand, the combination of black hair and blue eyes was a most unusual one. Besides, it was already sufficiently remarkable that two young and beautiful women had fled from Newhaven on the same day (beauty being alas such a rarity!), but that three should have done so was well-nigh incredible. But could even the most superior of upper servants possess that air of breeding which was one of the girl's most noticeable attributes. It was, of course, within the bounds of possibility that this maid was well-born and simply forced by poverty into a menial position. One thing was certain—if his protÉgÉe was Priscilla Prentice, then this girl, in spite of her humble occupation, was a lady, and consequently more than ever in need of his protection and respect.

Well, assuming that it was Prentice he had rescued, what part had she played in the tragedy? Why had she feared arrest? She must have been present at the murder, but even in that case, why did she not realise that Lady Wilmersley's unbalanced condition would prevent suspicion from falling on any one else? The police had never even thought of her! And where had she hidden her mistress? It was all most mysterious.

Cyril sat weighing the pros and cons of one theory after another, completely oblivious of his housekeeper's presence.

Douglas, entering, discreetly interrupted his cogitations:

"The inquest is about to begin, my lord."