She continued looking at him after he had spoken, as though she failed to grasp the meaning of his words. It seemed as if they conveyed nothing definite to her.

“I don't think I heard you aright, Sir Percival,” she said at last. “There was no question of Richard Westwood's being alive or dead. You went to find out about Claude.”

“I went to find out about Claude, but I did not get further than the lodge,” said Sir Percival. “At the lodge I heard what had happened. It is a terrible thing! The events of the day must have affected him more deeply than we imagined they would.”

“You mean to tell me that Dick—that Richard Westwood is dead?” said Agnes.

“He died this morning.”

“Dead! but I was with him yesterday. My brother Cyril dined with him last night.”

“I tell you it is a terrible thing. Poor fellow! His mind must have given way beneath the strain that the run upon the bank entailed upon him. Dear Agnes, let me help you to reach your chair. Pray lean on me.”

She did not seem to hear what he had said. She was dazed but striving to recover herself.

“I cannot understand,” she said. “It appears strange that I cannot understand when you have spoken quite plainly. But we were talking about Claude—not Dick. You were to find out what Dick thought regarding the rumour of Claude's being alive—so far I am quite clear. But here you come to me saying: 'It is Dick Westwood and not Claude who is dead.' What on earth can you mean by saying that, when all i wanted to know was about Claude?”

“My dear Agnes, I can say nothing more. This second shock is too much for you. In a few minutes, however, you will be able to realise what has happened. Where is your brother? I must speak to him.”

“No—no; do not leave me. If he is dead—and you say that he is dead—I have no friend in the world but you. Ah, you must not leave me. I do not think I have any one in the world but you.”

She spoke in a tone of pitiful entreaty, holding out both her hands to him, as she had done once in the garden.

He took her hands and held them for a moment, but he did not press them, as another man might have done, when she had spoken. He said gently: “I will not leave you—whatever may happen I will be by your side. Now you will sit down.”

He had just helped her to one of the chairs that stood in the porch, when the portiÈre was flung aside, and Cyril, in the art of lighting a cigarette, appeared.

“Hallo, Agnes, I'm a bit late, I suppose,” he began, but seeing Sir Percival helping her as though she were as feeble as an invalid, to the chair, he stopped short. “What's the matter, Sir Percival?” he said, in another tone, but not one of great concern.

“Tell him—tell him; perhaps he will understand,” said Agnes, looking up to Sir Percival's face.

“You do not mind my speaking to him for a minute in the garden?” said Sir Percival.

“Go; perhaps he will understand,” said she.

He held up a linger to Cyril, and they went outside together.

“What's the mystery now?” asked Cyril, picking up his straw hat from a chair. “I shouldn't wonder if it had something to do with Claude Westwood. My poor sister is overcome because she has received confirmation of his death probably. But you and I know, Sir Percival, that there has not been the smallest chance.”

“I do not want to talk to you about Claude Westwood just at this minute, but about his brother,” said Sir Percival. “The fact is, that I have just returned from the Court. The dead body of Richard Westwood was found by a gardener this morning not twenty yards from his house. He had shot himself with a revolver.”

Cyril turned very pale, but the cigarette that he was smoking did not drop from his lips. He stared at Sir Percival for some moments, and then slowly removed his cigarette. He drew a long breath before saying in a whisper:

“Shot himself? Then he was bankrupt after all, and Agnes's money's gone. Why the mischief did you give her that cheque yesterday, Sir Percival?”

“I thought it well that you should hear this terrible news at once,” said Sir Percival, ignoring his question. “I believe that you dined with him last night, and so you were probably the last person to see him alive. You will most certainly be questioned by the Chief Constable before the inquest.”

“The Chief Constable or any other constable may question me; I don't mind. I don't suppose it will be suggested that I shot poor Dick,” said Cyril, somewhat jauntily.

Sir Percival made no reply, and Cyril went on.

“Good heavens! Poor old Dick! I'm sorry for him. I have good reason to be sorry. He was the best friend I had. He understood me. He wasn't too hard on a chap like me. The people in this neighbourhood think that I'm a bad egg—you probably think so too, Sir Percival; but poor Dick never joined with the others in boycotting me, though he knew more about me than any of them! And to think that all the time he was playing that game of billiards—all the time he was crossing the park with me when I was going home, he meant to put an end to himself.”

“You will probably be asked some questions on this point by the Chief Constable,” said Sir Percival. “He will ask you if you can testify to his state of mind last evening. You drove back with him from the bank, I believe?”

“I drove back with him, and dined with him. We had a game of billiards, the same as usual, and then he walked across the park with me, as I say. That's all I have to tell. I know nothing about his condition of mind; but he admitted to me more than once that he had had rather a bad time of it while those fools were in the bank clamouring for their money—it appears that they weren't such great fools after all. Poor old Dick! He took me up quite seriously when I suggested that he should marry Agnes. He pretended to believe that Claude was still alive, as if he didn't know as well as you or I, Sir Percival”—

“There is every likelihood that Claude Westwood is alive,” said Sir Percival.

“What—Claude Westwood alive and Dick Westwood dead?” cried Cyril. “Pardon me if I seem rude, Sir Percival, but what on earth are you talking about?”

“I have told you all that I know,” said Sir Percival. “Your sister got a telegram an hour ago telling her that a London newspaper contains a piece of exclusive news regarding Claude Westwood, and the information is described as accurate beyond question.”

“Great Scott!” said Cyril after a pause. “What's the meaning of this, anyway? One brother turns up alive and well after being lost in Africa for eight years, and the other—Good heavens! What can any one say when things like that are occurring under our very eyes? Why couldn't Dick have waited until the news came? He would not have shot himself if he had known that Claude was alive, I'll swear. And as for Claude—well, when he gets the news from Brackenhurst, he'll be inclined to wish that he had remained in the interior.”

“They were so deeply attached to each other?”

“Well, of course, Sir Percival, I can't say anything about that from my own recollection, but every one about here says they were like David and Jonathan—like Damon and the other chap. Nothing ever came between them—not even a woman; and I need hardly tell you, Sir Percival, that the appearance of the woman is usually the signal for”—

“Here is Major Borrowdaile,” said Sir Percival, interrupting the outburst of cynical philosophy on the part of the youth, as a dog-cart driven by Major Borrowdaile, the Chief Constable of the county, passed through the entrance gates.

Cyril allowed himself to be interrupted without a protest. His nonchalance vanished as the officer jumped from the dog-cart and went across the lawn to him. Sir Percival took a few steps to meet Major Borrowdaile, but Cyril did not move.

“You have heard of this nasty business, Sir Percival?” said the officer.

“I have just come from the lodge at the Court,” replied Sir Percival. “There's no possibility of a mistake being made, I suppose? It is certain that Mr. Westwood shot himself.”

“It is certain that the poor fellow was found shot through the lungs,” said the Chief Constable cautiously. “I hear that you dined with him last night, Mowbray,” he continued, turning to Cyril. “That is why I have troubled you with a visit.”

“Why should you come to me?” said Cyril, almost plaintively. “I dined with Dick Westwood, and parted from him at the road gate before midnight. That's all I know about the business.”

“That means you were the last person to see him alive. He must have been shot on returning to the house after letting you through the road gate.”

“Must have been shot?” cried Cyril. “Why, you said he had shot himself, Sir Percival.”

“He was found with a revolver close to his hand,” said Major Borrowdaile, “and the undergardener, who discovered the body, took it for granted that he had committed suicide. You see the fact that there was a run upon the bank yesterday induces some people to jump to the conclusion that he committed suicide, just as the assumption that he committed suicide will lead many people to assume that the affairs of the bank are in an unsatisfactory condition. They are bad logicians. Did he seem at all depressed in the course of the evening, Mowbray?”

“Not he,” replied Cyril. “He was just the opposite. He ate a first-class dinner, and we discussed the fools who made the run upon the bank. It seems that they weren't such fools after all—so I've been saying to Sir Percival.”

“You are another of the imperfect logicians,” said Major Borrowdaile. “I want facts—not deductions, if you please. If there are to be any deductions made I prefer making them myself. I promise you that I shall make them on a basis of fact. Dr. Mitford saw our poor friend, and he has had, as you know, a large experience of bullet wounds—he went through four campaigns—and he declares that it is quite impossible that Mr. Westwood could have shot himself. The bullet entered the lungs from behind. Now, men who wish to commit suicide do not shoot themselves in that way. They have the best of reasons tor refraining. That is fact number one. Fact number two is that the revolver which was found at his hand was not Mr. Westwood's—his own revolver was found safe in his own bedroom.”

“Then the deduction is simple,” said Sir Per-cival. “Some one must have shot him.”

“I am afraid that is the only conclusion one can come to, considering the facts which I have placed before you, Sir Percival,” said Major Borrowdaile. “This view is strengthened by Mowbray's testimony as to the condition of Mr. Westwood last night: he was not depressed nor had he any reason to be depressed, the run upon the bank having been successfully averted.”

“But who could have borne him a grudge? He was, I have always believed, the most popular man in the neighbourhood,” said Sir Percival.

The Chief Constable glanced toward Cyril saying:

“Perhaps Mowbray here will be able to give us at least a clue.”

“I?—I know nothing of the matter,” said Cyril. “I have told you all that I know. We parted at the gate in the wall of the park—it saves me a round of more than half a mile—that's all I know, I assure you.”

“Then I'm disappointed in my mission to you,” said the Chief Constable. “The fact is that one of the servants came to us with a singular story of a visitor—a man wearing a rather shabby coat and a soft hat. He says he entered the room when this man was having an altercation with Mr. Westwood, at which you were present, and the revolver”—

“Great Scott!” cried Cyril. “How could I be such an idiot as to forget that! The man came into the drawing-room through the open window, and called Dick a swindler. He pulled out a revolver and covered Dick with it just as the servant entered the room. Dick took the matter very coolly and the fellow threw the revolver out of the window, and walked out by the door himself—but not before he had threatened Dick. Oh, there can be no doubt about it; the shot was tired by that man.”

“Did he mention what was his name?” asked Major Borrowdaile.

“He did—yes, he said his name was—now What the mischief did he say it was? Stanley?—no—Stanmore?—I think he said his name was Stanmore. No! have it now—Standish; and he mentioned that he had just come from Midleigh. Oh, there's no doubt that he fired the shot. Why on earth haven't you tried to arrest him? He can't have gone very far as yet.”

“He was arrested half an hour ago,” said the Chief Constable.

“Heavens above! He didn't run away?” cried Cyril.

“On the contrary, he walked straight into the bank the first thing this morning, and tried to make a row because the cashier hadn't arrived,” said Major Borrowdaile. “He waited there, and when the news came that Mr. Westwood was dead and the doors of the bank were about to be closed, he refused to leave the premises. That was where he made a mistake; for he was arrested by my sergeant on suspicion, though the sergeant had heard that Mr. Westwood had shot himself. And yet we hear that there is no intelligence apart from Scotland Yard!”