Endacott, although abstracted, seemed for him to be in an almost genial frame of mind when he obeyed the summons of the evening gong and, meeting Claire in the hall, waited to enter the dining room with her.

“A tiring day, Uncle?” she asked him.

“Not particularly,” he answered. “I made only two calls. Phillpots kept me some time at the British Museum, or I could really have caught the earlier train.—How is the piano?”

“I haven’t tried it,” she admitted.

“Your aunt all right to-day?”

“More confessions, Uncle. I haven’t even seen her.”

Endacott, as he took his place, removed his spectacles for a moment, rubbed his eyes wearily, and then looked across at his niece.

“What have you been doing all day then?” he demanded.

Claire summoned up all her courage.

“Mr. Ballaston called for me and I went over to the Cromer Golf Links with him,” she confided. “I had a lesson at golf, some lunch, and afterwards we came home through Blakeney.”

Her uncle, rather to Claire’s surprise, made no comment. The service of dinner appeared to interest him more than usual, and he certainly ate with appetite.

“Railway travelling agrees with me, I think,” he remarked. “I feel that I shall enjoy working this evening. After dinner I shall have a pipe on the lawn with my coffee, and then—the half-hour which I have been looking forward to for so long.”

“Did you get what you wanted from Mr. Phillpots?” she asked him, with a queer little note of eagerness in her tone.

“I did,” he admitted. “Unless I am very much mistaken, I can fill in all the missing spaces in that manuscript within an hour. By-the-by, Claire, you didn’t come down again last night after you had gone to bed, did you, or hear anything unusual?”

She shook her head.

“I was much too sleepy. Why?”

He toyed nervously with some bread upon his plate. His eyes sought hers almost furtively.

“Just an idea,” he said. “I left my work for five or ten minutes and walked around the garden. When I came back, my papers were all disturbed.”

“I didn’t stir out of my room after I went upstairs,” she assured him. “Was anything missing? Were there any papers there that mattered?”

“As it happened there were not,” he replied. “If it had been to-night—well, it might have been different, although a manuscript in Chinese, even though translated, as it will be, would be scarcely likely to attract an ordinary thief, would it?”

She moved in her chair a little uneasily.

“I should think not,” she replied. “In any case, if you were only out of the room for a few minutes, who could have entered without your seeing them?”

“Just so,” he agreed. “As you suggest, it might have been fancy, or a breath of wind from outside, or the opening of a door.”

“You mustn’t sit up too late to-night,” she told him. “You are looking very tired.”

He nodded gently.

“All the work I have to do,” he said, “will be finished in an hour. Afterwards I may write a letter while you go in and see your aunt.”

His sudden fit of what was for him almost garrulity, left him and he relapsed into his usual silence, punctuated only by monosyllabic replies to Claire’s remarks. He accompanied her into the garden, however, at the conclusion of the meal, and whilst they sat together over their coffee he asked her an abrupt question.

“How old are you, Claire?”

“Twenty-one,” she told him, “twenty-one last May.”

“You are a sensible girl,” he went on. “When I heard that I was going to have a niece to look after and that she was coming out to China for me to take her to England, I must confess that I was terrified. Such an upheaval in my daily life seemed to me calamitous. I have been agreeably surprised. Your coming has been a pleasure to me, Claire. I only wish that you had come before.”

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her in such a fashion.

“I am a poor adviser for a young girl,” he continued, a little regretfully, “and I am afraid that your aunt is hopelessly prejudiced in the matter. I cannot bring myself to believe, however, that the society of this young man, Gregory Ballaston, is a good thing for you. I distrust the family ethics. I cannot help thinking that he is hoping through you to arrive at the information which so far I have refused his father and his uncle.”

“I was with him for several hours to-day, Nunks, and he never even mentioned it,” she ventured. “He is going out to Canada in a month or so to earn his own living.”

Endacott sighed.

“I am full of prejudices,” he confessed. “The last twenty years of my life have been spent in abstractions, have passed like a dream, away from the world which counts, which one ought really never to lose sight of. I should be an ill-adviser to any one.—Go and play something.”

Claire disappeared into the house and soon the sound of her music drifted out in little ripples of melody through the perfumed stillness. Her uncle listened for some time without any sign of pleasure or the reverse. Then he rose to his feet and looked up across the roofs of the village, over the green slopes in the background, to where a few lights were slowly appearing from the windows of the Hall. Presently the music ceased and Claire stole out to him. She passed her arm through his.

“It is a very beautiful home that, Uncle,” she said softly. “Don’t you think it would be a sin to have it all broken up?”

“A better race might follow,” he muttered.

She shook her head.

“They belong,” she said gently.

He turned away with a little grunt and entered his study. For a few minutes Claire flitted round the garden. There was a nightingale singing somewhere in the distance to which she stopped to listen. Even the noises from the village, through the gathering twilight, became almost melodious. Presently she passed through the postern gate, strolled across the lane and entered the drawing-room of the Little House through the wide-flung windows. Madame lay stretched upon her couch, listless and weary. She welcomed Claire with only the ghost of a smile.

“Where have you been all day, child?” she asked.

“Enjoying myself, I am afraid,” was the remorseful reply. “Gregory came and fetched me and we went over to Cromer.”

“How did he seem?” Madame enquired, with a shade of interest, almost eagerness, in her manner. “Was he very depressed?”

Claire shook her head, thankful for the twilight.

“He seemed very much as usual,” she answered; “if anything a little nicer. I enjoyed my day very much. The only thing I felt was that I was neglecting you.”

Madame made a faint gesture of denial.

“I am very glad to think that you had such a happy day, dear,” she said. “I am glad you came in for a moment, though. I don’t know why it is, but to-night I have nerves. Where is your uncle?”

“Working away as usual at his Chinese manuscripts,” Claire replied. “He went to London this morning and came back at five o’clock.”

Madame nodded.

“I saw the car go with him and bring him back. I don’t know how it is, but the sight of every one to-day makes me uneasy. Even Bertram seemed queer. He sat with me for an hour this afternoon. As a rule he soothes me. To-day, somehow or other, he frightened me. I feel as though there were a sort of psychological thunder in the air.”

“Aunt, you mustn’t let yourself imagine such foolish things,” Claire begged. “Everything and every one is as usual. Uncle, as a matter of fact, was in remarkably good spirits this evening.”

“Can any one help fancies and presentiments, my dear, who lies here hour after hour, day by day, as I do,” Madame sighed. “I know it is silly, but instinct is stronger than reason, and Bertram, at any rate, was strange to-day. Every now and then he left off talking and there seemed to be something always behind his eyes.”

Miss Besant entered the room and Claire called to her. She began to make preparations with firm, capable fingers, for moving the couch. Claire bent over and kissed her aunt.

“No more morbidness, please,” she insisted. “I’ll be over early to-morrow morning. I may have some news for you.”

“Your uncle has found what he wanted in London then?” Madame asked.

Claire nodded assent.

“He told me a short time ago,” she confided, “that in half an hour he would know everything there is to be known.”

She crossed the lane and passed through the postern gate, gazing wistfully over the roofs of the village houses towards the park. Her preparations for the night, when she finally reached her room, took her longer than usual. It was late when, after she had turned out the lights, she moved to the window and stood there for a moment looking out. Suddenly the little reminiscent smile upon her lips changed to one of actuality, of real and instant pleasure. The moonlight was as yet faint, but, crossing the stile which led from the park, she caught a glimpse of a white shirt. For a moment she was tempted. He might be coming even as far as the gardens, late though it was. Then she looked back at her neatly folded clothes and shook her head.

“Claire,” she soliloquised, “you’re a sentimental idiot!”

After which she turned out the light, got into bed and slept soundly.

When she awoke the sun was shining into her room, the thrushes and blackbirds were singing and there were sounds of unusual movement downstairs. Still only half awake, she sat up, listening to the footsteps upon the gravel beneath her window. There were voices too, muffled, yet agitated. Then she heard one word—a dramatic, horrible slur against the background of the summer morning.

“Dead!—Cold dead he were!”

For a moment she shook herself. She felt that she must be in a nightmare. Then she became conscious of the reality of those footsteps below, the renewed murmuring of awe-stricken voices. She sprang out of bed. Before she could reach the window, she heard the same hoarse, shocked voice, with its quaint Norfolk inflexion.

“Shot right through the head, that’s what happened to him. Writing there at the table with his papers lying all over the place. There’s a revolver on the floor. Police Sergeant Cloutson won’t have it touched.”

She leaned, screaming, out of the window. Amongst the little crowd below were the village policeman, both the gardeners, and Mr. Wilkinson, the clergyman.

“Tell me what has happened?” she cried out frantically.

They seemed all stricken dumb.

“Tell me, tell me what it is?” she insisted.

Mr. Wilkinson turned towards the front entrance.

“If you will put on a dressing gown and come to your door,” he said, “I will speak to you.”

She met him halfway down the stairs. Her knees were trembling, and she clung to the banisters for support.

“Tell me what it is?” she demanded. “Is it Uncle?”

“My dear young lady,” he announced solemnly, “a terrible thing has happened. You must prepare yourself for the worst. Your uncle has been shot through the head, apparently at some time during the night. The doctor is with him now, but—but he is quite dead.”

“Dead!” she repeated mechanically.

“All his papers are in a state of great disorder,” the clergyman concluded. “I am afraid—it is a terrible thing to say, but I am afraid there is no doubt that your uncle has been murdered.”