At the inquest which was held next day nothing was elicited which could offer any solution of the mystery of Clement Henshaw's death. It seemed to be pretty generally accepted to be a case of suicide, although that view was opposed in evidence, not only by Gervase Henshaw on general grounds, but also by the medical witnesses, who had grave doubts whether the mortal wound had been self-inflicted.

"Just possible but decidedly improbable, both from the position of the wound and the direction of the blow," was Dr. Page's opinion.

It was a downward, oblique stab in the throat which had pierced the larynx and penetrated the jugular vein. The deceased would have been unable to cry out and would probably have quickly become insensible from asphyxiation. Unless he was left-handed the stab could scarcely have been self-given.

The police authorities committed themselves to no definite theory at that stage, and at their request the inquiry was adjourned for a month.

Morriston, leaving the hall with Kelson and Gifford, asked them to walk back with him to Wynford Place.

"Let us throw off this depressing business as well as we can," he said. "Of course I have had to break it to my sister and the others; they would have seen it to-day in print. Thank goodness the papers don't look beyond the suicide idea, so they are not making much fuss about it. If they took a more sensational view, as I fear they will now after the medical evidence, it would be a terrible nuisance."

"I hope the ladies were not much upset when you told them,"
Gifford remarked.

"Well, they already had an idea that something was seriously wrong, and that took the edge off the announcement. Of course they were horribly shocked at the idea of the tragedy so close at hand, though I softened the details as well as I could."

"If the suicide idea is to be abandoned," said Kelson, speaking with an unusually gloomy, preoccupied air, "the police have an uncommonly difficult and delicate task before them."

"Yes, indeed," Morriston responded. "And I should say that abnormally keen person, the brother, will keep them up to collar."

"He means to," Kelson replied rather grimly. "We had him for an hour last night cross-examining us, naturally to no purpose; we could tell him nothing."

"He won't leave a stone unturned," Morriston said. "He proposes to return here after the funeral in town."

"And I should say," observed Kelson, "if the mystery is to be solved he is the man to solve it. What do you think, Hugh?"

Gifford seemed to rouse himself by an effort from an absorbing train of thought. "Oh, yes," he answered. "Except that it is possible to be a little too clever and so overlook the obvious."

"If," said Morriston, obsessed by the subject, "the case is not one of suicide it must be one of murder. Where is Mr. Gervase Henshaw, or any one else, going to look for the criminal?"

"Not among your guests, let's hope," Kelson said with a touch of uneasiness.

"For one thing," Morriston replied, "they, or a good part of them, were not exactly my guests. I can't tell who may have got a ticket and been present. There was a great crowd. We may have easily rubbed shoulders with the murderer, if murder it was."

"Yes, so we may," said Kelson alertly, though with something of a shudder.

"Not a pleasant idea," continued Morriston. "But I don't see, if a bad character did get in and mix with the company, why he should have done a fellow guest to death, nor how he contrived to leave his victim and get out of the room after he had locked the door."

"If the two men had a row over a girl, or anything else," Kelson said, "there is still that difficulty to be surmounted."

Gifford spoke. "From what one could judge of the dead man's personality and character it is not a far-fetched supposition that he must have had enemies."

"Down here?" Morriston objected incredulously. "Where he was a stranger? Unless some ingenious person, bent on vengeance, tracked him here and then lured him into the tower. Then how did the determined pursuer contrive to leave him and the key inside the locked room?"

At Wynford Place, where they had now arrived, they found several callers. The subject of the tragedy was naturally uppermost in everybody's mind, and the principal topic of conversation. Morriston and his companions were eagerly questioned as to what had come out at the inquest, but, except that the medical evidence was rather sceptical of the suicide theory, were unable to relieve the curiosity.

"I think, my dear Dick," remarked Lord Painswick, who was there, "we can furnish more evidence in this room than you seem to have got hold of at the inquest." And he looked round the company with a knowing smile.

"What do you mean, Painswick?" Morriston asked eagerly. "Has anything more come to light?"

"Only we have had a lady here, Miss Elyot, who says she danced with the poor fellow."

"I only just took a turn with him, for the waltz was nearly over when he asked me," said the girl thus alluded to.

"Did you wear a green dress?" Kelson asked eagerly.

"Yes. Why?"

"Only that it must have been you I saw with him."

"And can you throw any light on the mystery?" Morriston asked.

The girl shook her head. "None at all, I'm afraid."

"Did Mr. Henshaw's manner or state of mind strike you as being peculiar?"

"Not in the least," Miss Elyot answered with decision. "During the short time we were together our talk was quite commonplace, mostly of the changes in the county."

"Did he, Henshaw, know it formerly?" Morriston asked with some surprise.

"Oh, yes," Miss Elyot answered, "he used to stay with some people over at Lamberton; you remember the Peltons, Muriel?" she turned to Miss Tredworth. "Of course you do."

"Oh, yes," Muriel Tredworth answered. "I remember them quite well, although we didn't know much about them."

"Don't you recollect," Miss Elyot continued, "meeting this very Mr. Henshaw at a big garden party they gave. I know you played tennis with him."

"Did I?" Miss Tredworth replied. "What a memory you have, Gladys. You can't expect me to recollect every one of the scores of men I must have played tennis with."

As she spoke she caught Gifford's eye; he was watching her keenly, more closely perhaps than manners or tact warranted. "And do you find the place much changed since your time, Mr. Gifford?" she inquired, as though to relieve the awkwardness.

"Not as much as I could have imagined," he answered, through what seemed a fit of preoccupation.

"Mr. Gifford has not had much opportunity yet of seeing how far it has altered, with this tragic affair to upset everything," Morriston put in.

"No, it has been a most unlucky time for him to revisit Wynford," Miss Morriston added in her cold tone. "I hope Mr. Gifford is not going to hurry away from the neighbourhood in consequence."

"Not if I can prevent it," Kelson replied, with a laugh.

"I hope," Morriston said hospitably, "that whether his stay be short or long Mr. Gifford will consider himself quite at home here. And I need not say, my dear Kelson, that invitation includes you."

Both men thanked him. "We have already done a little trespassing in your park," Kelson observed with a laugh.

"Please don't call it trespassing again," Miss Morriston commanded. "Let me give you another cup of tea, Muriel."

"The old house looks most picturesque by moon-light," observed Lord
Painswick. "I was quite fascinated by it the other night."

"There is a full moon now," Gifford said. "We will stroll round and admire when we leave."

"Don't stroll over the edge of the haha as I very nearly did one night," Morriston said laughingly. "When it lies in the shadow of the house it is a regular trap."

"Moonlight has its dangers as well as its beauties," Painswick murmured sententiously.

"The friendly cloak of night is apt to trip one up," Gifford added.

As he spoke the words there came a startling little cry from Miss Tredworth accompanied by the crash and clatter of falling crockery. Gifford's remark had been made with his eyes fixed on his friend's fiancÉe, to whom at that moment Miss Morriston was handing the refilled cup of tea. A hand of each girl was upon the saucer as the words were uttered; by whose fault it was let fall it was impossible to say. But the slight cry of dismay had come from Miss Tredworth.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, colouring with vexation. "How stupid and clumsy of me. Your lovely china."

"It was my fault," Edith Morriston protested, her clear-cut face showing no trace of annoyance. "I thought you had hold of the cup, and I let it go too soon. Ring the bell, will you, Dick."

"Please don't distress yourself, Miss Tredworth," Mr. Morriston entreated her as he crossed to the bell. "I'm sure it was not your fault."

"Was that a quotation, Mr. Gifford?" Miss Morriston asked, clearly with the object of dismissing the unfortunate episode.

"My remark about the cloak of night?" he replied. "Perhaps. I seem to have heard something like it somewhere."

And as he spoke he glanced curiously at Miss Tredworth.