Next morning directly after breakfast Kelson started for Wynford Place. As the result of deliberating fully upon the anxious problem before them, he and Gifford had come to the conclusion that it might be a grave mistake to try to keep secret the maid's discovery. It would doubtless by this time have become a subject of gossip and speculation in the household and consequently would very soon become public. Accordingly it was arranged that Kelson should arrive first and have a private interview with Muriel Tredworth with a view to ascertaining finally and for certain whether she could in any way account for the stain on her dress. Gifford was to follow half an hour later, when they would have a conference with the Morristons and afterwards, with their approval, go into the town and see the chief constable on the subject. If Gifford was doubtful as to the expediency of the plan, and it was with a considerable amount of hesitation that he brought himself to agree to it, he seemed to have no good reason to urge against it. And, after all, it appeared, in the circumstances, the only politic course to follow. Secrecy was practically now out of the question, and any attempt in that direction would inevitably fail and would in all probability produce results unpleasant to contemplate.

When Gifford arrived at Wynford Place he found Kelson pacing the drive and impatiently expecting him.

"Come along," he exclaimed, "the Morristons are waiting for us."

"Miss Tredworth—?"

"Is utterly unable to account for the state of her dress," Kelson declared promptly. "She is positive that if she noticed the man she never spoke a word to him, nor danced with him. She says that if she ever met him before, as according to that girl the other day was the case, she had quite forgotten the circumstance. So the sooner we communicate this discovery to the police the better. As it is, they say the servants are talking of it; so the present position is quite intolerable."

In the library they found Morriston and his sister with the Tredworths. The situation was discussed and there seemed no doubt in the mind of any one of the party that the only thing to be done was to inform the police at once.

"The whole affair is so mysterious," Morriston said, "that all sorts of absurd rumours will be afloat if we don't take a strong, straightforward line at once. Don't you agree, Edith?"

"Certainly I do," Miss Morriston answered with decision. "I don't suppose," she added with a smile, "that any one would be mad enough to suggest, my dear Muriel, that you were in any way implicated in the affair; but the world is full of stupid and ill-natured people and one can't be too careful to put oneself in the right. Don't you agree, Captain Kelson?"

"Most decidedly," Kelson replied, with a troubled face. Charlie Tredworth was also quite emphatically of opinion that his sister should make no secret of what had been found.

"The inspector, who is here," Morriston said, "tells me that Major Freeman, our chief constable, intends to come here this morning. I'll say we want to see him directly he arrives."

It was not long before the chief constable was shown into the library. Morriston lost no time in telling him of the mysterious circumstance which had come to light. Major Freeman, a keen soldierly man, with the stern expression and uncompromising manner naturally acquired by those whose business is to deal with crime, received the information with grave perplexity. He turned a searching look upon Muriel Tredworth.

"I understand you are quite unable to account for the stains on your dress, Miss Tredworth?" he asked in a tone of courteous insistence.

"Quite," she answered. "I did not speak to Mr. Henshaw or even notice him in the ball-room."

"You had—pardon these questions; I am putting this in your own interest—you had at no time any acquaintance with Mr. Clement Henshaw?"

"I can hardly say that I had," the girl replied; "although a friend has told me that I played tennis with him at a garden-party some years ago."

"A circumstance which you do not recollect?" The question was put politely, even sympathetically, yet with a certain uncomfortable directness.

"No," Muriel answered. "Even when I was reminded of it, my recollection was of the vaguest description. So far as that goes I could neither admit nor deny it with any certainty."

"And naturally you never, to your knowledge, saw or communicated with the deceased man since?"

Muriel flushed. "No; absolutely no," she returned with a touch of resentment at the suggestion.

Major Freeman forbore to distress the girl by any further questioning. "Thank you," he said simply. "I am sorry to have even appeared to suggest such a thing, but you and your friends will appreciate that it was my duty to ask these questions. This looks at the moment," he continued, addressing himself now to the party in general, "like proving a very mysterious, and I will add, peculiarly delicate affair. The medical evidence is inclined to scout the idea of suicide, and my men who have the case in hand are coming round to the conclusion that the theory is untenable."

"The locked door—" Morriston suggested.

"The locked door," said Major Freeman, "presents a difficulty, but still one not absolutely incapable of solution. We know," he added, with a faint smile, "from the way the door was eventually opened, that a key can be turned from the other side, given the right instrument to effect it."

"Which only a burglar or a locksmith would be likely to have," Kelson suggested.

Major Freeman nodded. "Quite so. I am not for a moment suggesting that as an explanation of the mystery. It goes naturally much deeper than that. Mr. Gervase Henshaw is to look into his brother's affairs and papers while in town, and I am hoping that on his return here he may be able to give some information which will afford a clue on which we can work. In the meantime my men are not relaxing their efforts in this rather baffling case."

"In which," Morriston suggested, "this new piece of evidence does not afford any useful clue."

Major Freeman smiled, a little awkwardly, it seemed. "If anything, it would appear to complicate the problem still further," he replied guardedly. "Still, I am very glad to have it, and thank you for informing me so promptly. Miss Tredworth may rest assured that should we find it necessary to go still farther into this piece of evidence, it will be done with as little annoyance as possible."

Some of the chief constable's habitual sternness of manner seemed to have returned to him as he now rose to take leave. "I will just confer with my men who are on the premises before I leave," he said to Morriston in a quiet authoritative tone. "They may have something to report." With that he bowed to the company and quitted the room, leaving behind him a rather uncomfortable feeling which every one seemed to make an effort to throw off.

But there was clearly nothing to be done except to let the police researches take their course and to wait for developments. The party at Wynford was going over to the dance at Stowgrave that evening and it was arranged that they would call for Kelson and Gifford and all go on together.

Accordingly at the appointed time the carriage stopped at the Golden Lion; Kelson joining Miss Tredworth and her brother, while Gifford drove with Morriston.

In answer to his companion's inquiry Morriston said that he had heard of nothing fresh in the Henshaw case.

"I saw Major Freeman for a moment as he was leaving," he said, "and gathered that the police were still at a loss for any satisfactory explanation as to how the crime was committed."

"He made no suggestion as to the stains on Miss Tredworth's dress?"
Gifford asked.

"No. Although I fancy he is a good deal exercised by that piece of evidence. Mentioned, as delicately as possible, that it might be necessary to have the stains analyzed, but did not wish the girl to be alarmed or worried about it. I can't understand," Morriston added in a puzzled tone, "how on earth she could possibly have had anything to do with it."

"No," Gifford assented thoughtfully; "it is inconceivable, unless by the supposition that she may by some means have come in contact with some one who was concerned in the crime."

"You mean if a man had a stain on his coat and danced with her—"

"Something of the sort. If there were blood on his lapel or sleeve."

"H'm! It would be easy to ascertain for certain whom she danced with,"
Morriston said reflectively. "But that again is almost unthinkable."

"And," Gifford added, "it seems to go no way towards elucidating the problem of how Henshaw came to his death. As a matter of fact I should say Miss Tredworth danced and sat out nearly the whole of the evening with Kelson. You know he proposed at the dance?"

"Yes, I understood that. Poor Kelson; I am sorry for him, and for them both. It is an ominous beginning of their betrothal."

"It is horrible," Gifford observed sympathetically. "Although one tries to think there is really nothing in it for them to be concerned about."

The dance was an enjoyable affair, and, at any rate for the time, dispersed the depression which had hung over the party from Wynford. Gifford had engaged Miss Morriston for two waltzes, and after a turn or two in the second his partner said she felt tired and suggested they should sit out the rest of it. Accordingly they strolled off to an adjoining room and made themselves comfortable in a retired corner, Gifford, nothing loath to have a quiet chat with the handsome girl whose self-possessed manner with its suggestion of underlying strength of feeling was beginning to fascinate and intrigue his imagination.

"It is rather pleasant," she said a little wearily, "to get away from the atmosphere of mystery and police investigation we have been living in at home."

"Which I hope and believe will very soon be over," Gifford responded cheeringly.

Miss Morriston glanced at him curiously. "You believe that?" she returned almost sharply. "How can you think so? It seems to me that with little apparent likelihood of clearing up the mystery, the affair may drag on for weeks."

Gifford answered with a reassuring smile. "Hardly that. If the police can make nothing of it, and they seem to be quite nonplussed, they will have to give up their investigations and fall back on their first theory of suicide."

Leaning back and watching his companion's face in profile as she sat forward, he could see that his suggestion was by no means convincing.

"I wish I could take your view, Mr. Gifford," she returned, with the suggestion of a bitter smile. "I dare say if the authorities were left to themselves they might give up. But you forget a very potent factor in the tiresome business, the brother, Mr. Gervase Henshaw; he will keep them up to the work of investigation, will he not?"

"Up to a certain point, and one can scarcely blame him. But even then, the police are not likely to continue working on his theories when they lead to no result."

"No?" Miss Morriston replied in an unconvinced tone. "But he is—" she turned to him. "Tell me your candid opinion of this Mr. Gervase Henshaw. Is he very—"

"Objectionable?" Gifford supplied as she hesitated. "Unpleasantly sharp and energetic, I should say. Although it is, perhaps, hardly fair to judge a man labouring under the stress of a brother's tragic death."

"He is determined to get to the explanation of the mystery?" The tinge of excitement she had exhibited in her former question had now passed away: she now spoke in her habitual cold, even tone.

"He says so. Naturally he will do all he can to that end. Of course it would be a satisfaction to know for certain how the tragedy came about: not that it matters much otherwise. But unfortunately he rather poses as an expert in criminology, and that will make for pertinacity."

For a moment Miss Morriston kept silent. "It is very unfortunate," she murmured at length. "It will worry poor old Dick horribly. I think he is already beginning to wish he had never seen Wynford."

Gifford leaned forward. "Oh, but, my dear Miss Morriston," he said earnestly, "you and your brother must really not take the matter so seriously. It is all very unpleasant, one must admit, but, after all, except that it happened in your house, I don't see that it affects you."

"You think not," Miss Morriston responded mechanically.

"Indeed I think so." As he spoke Gifford could not help a slight feeling of wonder that this girl, from whom he would have expected an attitude rather of indifference, should allow herself to be so greatly worried by the affair. For that she was far more troubled than she allowed to appear he was certain. It is her pride, he told himself. A high-bred girl like this would naturally hate the very idea of a sensational scandal under her roof, and all its unpleasant, rather sordid accompaniments. "I wish," he added with a touch of fervour, "that I could persuade you to dismiss any fear of annoyance from your mind."

"I wish you could," she responded dully, with an attempt at a smile. Suddenly she turned to him with more animation in her manner than she had hitherto shown. "Mr. Gifford, you—I—" she hesitated as though at a loss how to put what she wished to say; "I have no right to ask you, who are a comparative stranger, to help us in this—this worry, but if you cared to be of assistance I am sure you could."

"Of course, of course I will," he answered with eager gladness. "Only let me know what you wish and you may command the very utmost I can do. And please don't think of me as a stranger."

Edith Morriston smiled, and to Gifford it was the most fascinating smile he had ever seen. "Only let me know how I can serve you," he said, his pulses tingling.

"I am thinking of my brother," she replied, in a tone so friendly that it neutralized the rather damping effect of the words. "He is worrying over this business more than one who does not know him well would think. I had an idea, Mr. Gifford, that you might help us by, in a way, standing between us, so far as might be possible, and this Mr. Gervase Henshaw. He stays at your hotel, does he not?"

"Yes; he is expected there to-morrow morning, if not to-night."

"You may perhaps," the girl proceeded, "be able—I don't know how, and I have no right to ask it—"

"Please, Miss Morriston!" Gifford pleaded.

"To minimize any annoyance we are likely to suffer through his—his uncomfortable zeal," she resumed hesitatingly. "If not that, you may, if he is friendly with you, have an opportunity of getting to hear something of his plans and ideas, and warning me if he is likely to worry us at Wynford. We don't want the tragedy kept alive indefinitely; it would be intolerable. I am sure you understand how I feel. That is all."

"You may rely on me to the utmost," Gifford assured her fervently, in answer to the question in her eyes.

"Thank you," she said, as she rose. "I felt sure I might ask you this favour and trust you."

She made a slight movement of putting out her hand. The gesture was coldly made; it might, indeed, have been checked, and gone for nothing. But Gifford, keenly on the alert for a sign of regard, was quick to take the hand and press it impulsively.

"You may trust me, Miss Morriston," he murmured.

"Thank you," she responded simply, but, he was glad to notice, with a touch of relief.

She lightly took his arm and they went back to the ball-room.