Next evening the two friends at the Golden Lion were engaged to dine with the Morristons. They had been out with the hounds all day, and, beyond the natural gossip of the country-side, had heard nothing fresh concerning the tragedy. Gervase Henshaw had gone up to town for his brother's funeral, and Host Dipper had no fresh development to report. In answer to a question from Gifford, he said he expected Mr. Henshaw back on the morrow, or at latest the day after.

"It is altogether a most mysterious affair," he observed sagely, being free, now that his late guest's perplexing disappearance was accounted for, even in that tragic fashion, to regard the business and to moralize over it without much personal feeling in the matter. "I fancy Mr. Gervase Henshaw means to work the police up to getting to the bottom of it. For I don't fancy that he is by any means satisfied that his unfortunate brother took his own life. And I must say," he added in a pronouncement evidently the fruit of careful deliberation, "I don't know how it strikes you, gentlemen, but from what I saw of the deceased it is hard to imagine him as making away with himself."

"Yes," Gifford replied. "But before any other conclusion can be fairly arrived at the police will have to account for the locked door."

Evidently Mr. Dipper's lucubrations had not, so far, reached a satisfactory explanation of that puzzle; he could only wag his head and respond generally, "Ah, yes. That will be a hard nut for them to crack, I'm thinking."

The dinner at Wynford Place was made as cheerful as, with the gloom of a tragedy over the house, could be possible.

"We had the police with a couple of detectives here all this morning," Morriston said, "and a great upset it has been. After having made the most minute scrutiny of the room in the tower they had every one of the servants in one by one and put them through a most searching examination. But, I imagine, without result. No one in the house, and I have questioned most of them casually myself, seems to be able to throw the smallest light on the affair."

"Have the police arrived at any theory?" Gifford inquired.

"Apparently they have come to no definite conclusion," Morriston answered. "They seemed to have an idea, though—to account for the problem of the locked door—that thieves might have got into the house with the object of making a haul in the bedrooms while every one's attention was engaged down below, have secreted themselves in the tower, been surprised by Henshaw, and, to save themselves, have taken the only effectual means of silencing him, poor fellow."

"Then how, with the door locked on the inside did they make their escape?" Miss Morriston asked.

"That can so far be only a matter of conjecture," her brother answered, with a shrug. "Of course they might have provided themselves with some sort of ladder, but there are no signs of it. And the height of the window in that top room is decidedly against the theory."

"We hear at the Lion" Kelson remarked, "that the brother, Gervase
Henshaw, is returning to-morrow or next day."

Morriston did not receive the news with any appearance of satisfaction. "I hope he won't come fussing about here," he said, with a touch of protest. "Making every allowance for the sudden shock under which he was labouring I thought his attitude the other day most objectionable, didn't you?"

"I did most certainly," Gifford answered promptly.

"His manners struck me as deplorable," Kelson agreed.

"Yes," their host continued. "It never seemed to occur to the fellow that some little sympathy was due also to us. But he seemed rather to suggest that the tragedy was our fault. In ordinary circumstances I should have dealt pretty shortly with him. But it was not worth while."

"No," Kelson observed, "All the same, you need not allow a continuation of his behaviour."

"I don't intend to," Morriston replied with decision. "I hope the man won't want to come ferreting in the place; that may well be left to the police; but if he does I can't very well refuse him leave. He must be free of the house, or at any rate of the tower."

"Or," put in Kelson, "he'll have a grievance against you, and accuse you of trying to burk the mystery."

"Is he a very objectionable person?" Miss Morriston asked. "We passed one another in the hall as he left the house and I received what seemed a rather unmannerly stare."

Her brother laughed. "My dear Edith, the type of man you would simply loathe. Abnormally, unpleasantly sharp and suspicious; with a cleverness which takes no account of tact or politeness, he questions you as though you were in the witness-box and he a criminal barrister trying to trap you. I don't know whether he behaves more civilly to ladies, but from our experience of the man I should recommend you to keep out of his way."

"I shall," his sister replied.

"I should say no respecter of persons—or anything else," Kelson remarked with a laugh.

"Let us hope he won't take it into his head to worry us," Miss Morriston said with quiet indifference.

"I am sorry to see," Morriston observed later on when the ladies had left them, "that the papers are beginning to take a sensational view of the affair."

"Yes," Kelson responded; "we noticed that. It will be a nuisance for you."

"The trouble has already begun," his host continued somewhat ruefully. "We have had two or three reporters here to-day worrying the servants with all sorts of absurd questions. It is, of course, all to be accounted for by the medical evidence. That has put them on the scent of what they will no doubt call a sensational development. So long as it looked like nothing beyond suicide there was not so much likelihood of public interest in the case."

"The police—" Gifford began.

"The police," Morriston took up the word, "are fairly nonplussed. It seems the farther they get the less obvious does the suicide theory become. Well, we shall see."

"In the meantime I'm afraid you and Miss Morriston are in for a heap of undeserved annoyance," Kelson observed sympathetically.

"Yes," Morriston agreed gloomily; "I am sorry for Edith; she is plucky, and feels it, I expect, far more than she cares to show."

When the men went into the drawing-room Muriel Tredworth made a sign to Kelson; he joined her and, sitting down some distance apart from the rest, they carried on in low tones what seemed to be a serious conversation.

"I want to tell you of something extraordinary which has happened to me, Hugh." Gifford just caught the words as the girl led the way out of earshot. He had noticed that she had been rather preoccupied during dinner, an unusual mood for so lively a girl, and now he could not help watching the pair in the distance, she talking with an earnest, troubled expression, and he listening to her story in grave wonderment, now and again interposing a few words. Once they looked at Gifford, and he was certain they were speaking of him.

With the gloom of a tragedy over the house the little party could not be very festive; avoid it as they set themselves to do, the brooding subject could not be ignored, general conversation flagged, and it soon became time for the visitors to say good-night.

As they walked back to the town together Gifford noticed that his companion was unusually silent, and he tactfully forbore to break in upon his preoccupation. At length Kelson spoke.

"Muriel has just been telling me of an unpleasant and unaccountable thing which happened to her this evening. A discovery of a rather alarming character. I said I would take your advice about it, Hugh, and she agreed."

"Does it concern the affair at Wynford?"

"It may," Kelson answered in a perplexed tone; "and yet I don't well see how it can. Anyhow it is uncommonly mysterious. We won't talk about it here," he added gravely, "but wait till we get in."

"Miss Morriston looked well to-night," Gifford remarked, falling in with his friend's wish to postpone the more engrossing subject.

"Yes," Kelson agreed casually. "She takes this ghastly business quietly enough. But that is her way."

"I have been wondering," Gifford said, "how much she cares for Painswick. He is manifestly quite smitten, but I doubt her being nearly as keen on him."

Kelson laughed. "If you ask me I don't think she cares a bit for him. And one can scarcely be surprised. He is not a bad fellow, but rather a prig, and Edith Morriston is not exactly the sort of girl to suffer that type of man gladly. But her brother is all for the match; from Painswick's point of view she is just the wife for him, money and a statuesque style of beauty; altogether I shall be surprised if it does not come off."

"They are not engaged, then?"

"I think not. They say he proposes regularly once a week. But she holds him off."

Arrived at the Golden Lion they went straight up to Kelson's room, where with more curiosity than he quite cared to show, Gifford settled himself to hear what the other had to tell him.

"I dare say you noticed how worried Muriel looked all dinner-time," Kelson began. "I thought that what had happened in the house had got on her nerves; but it was something worse than that; I mean touching her more nearly."

"Tell me," Gifford said quietly.

"You know," Kelson proceeded, "they are going to this dance at Hasborough to-morrow. Well, it appears that when her maid was overhauling her ball-dress, the same she wore here the other night, she found blood stains on it."

"That," Gifford remarked coolly, "may satisfactorily account for the marks on your cuff."

Kelson stared in surprise at the other's coolness.

"I dare say it does," he exclaimed with a touch of impatience. "I had hardly connected the two. But what do you think of this? How in the name of all that's mysterious can it be accounted for?"

"Hardly by the idea that Miss Tredworth had anything to do with the late tragedy," was the quiet answer.

"Good heavens, man, I should hope not," Kelson cried vehemently. "That is too monstrously absurd."

"What is Miss Tredworth's idea?"

"She has none. She is completely mystified. And inclined to be horribly frightened."

"Naturally," Gifford commented in the same even tone.

His manner seemed to irritate Kelson. "I wish, my dear Hugh, I could take it half as coolly as you do," he exclaimed resentfully.

"I don't know what you want me to do or say, Harry," Gifford expostulated. "The whole affair is so utterly mysterious that I can't pretend even to hazard an explanation."

"In the meantime Muriel and I are in the most appalling position. Why, man, she may at any moment be arrested on suspicion if this discovery leaks out, as it is sure to do."

"You can't try to hush it up; that would be a fatal mistake," Gifford said thoughtfully, "and would immediately arouse suspicion."

"Naturally I am not going to be such a fool as to advise that," Kelson returned. "The discovery will be the subject of the servants' talk till it gets all over the place and into the papers. No, what I have determined to do, unless you see any good reason for the contrary, is to go first thing in the morning to the police and tell them. What do you say?" he added sharply, as Gifford was silent.

"I should not do anything in a hurry," Gifford answered.

"But surely," Kelson remonstrated, "the sooner we take the line of putting ourselves in the right the better."

Again Gifford paused before replying.

"Can Miss Tredworth give no explanation, has she no idea as to how the stains came on her dress?"

"None whatever," was the emphatic answer.

"You are absolutely sure of that?"

Kelson jumped up from his chair. "Hugh, what are you driving at?" he cried, his eyes full of vague suspicion. "I—I don't understand the cool way you are taking this. There is something behind it. Tell me. I will know; I have a right."

Evidently the man was almost beside himself with the fear of something he could not comprehend. Gifford rose and laid a hand sympathetically on his shoulder. "I am sorry to seem so brutal, Harry," he said gently, "but this discovery does not surprise me."

Kelson recoiled as from a blow, staring at his friend with a horror-struck face. "Why, good heavens, what do you mean?" he gasped.

"Only," Gifford answered calmly, "that when you introduced me to Miss Tredworth at the dance I noticed the stains on the white flowers she wore."

"You did?" Kelson was staring stupidly at Gifford. "And you knew they were blood-stains?"

"I could not tell that," was the answer. "But now it is pretty certain they were."

For some seconds neither man spoke. Then with an effort Kelson seemed to nerve himself to put another question.

"Hugh," he said, his eyes pitiful with fear, "you—you don't think Muriel
Tredworth had anything to do with Henshaw's death?"

Gifford turned away, and leaned on the mantelpiece.

"I don't know what to think," he said gloomily.