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Talgarth was a pleasant old-fashioned house. Tradition had it that it had been built out of the stones from the walls of the convent that had stood close by, and that had been pillaged and destroyed by the orders of the eighth Henry. For the past twenty years Squire Hunter, from whom Stephen Crasster bought Talgarth, had not had money to keep the old place up, and it had acquired a forlorn, neglected look. Stephen Crasster had projected wide-spreading improvements, but the tidings of Peggy's engagement had taken the heart out of him.

Inspector Furnival found Stephen in the library when, in response to repeated invitations, he walked over to Talgarth one summer evening.

Crasster sprang up in surprise as "Mr. Lennox" was announced.

"Why, inspector, this is a welcome surprise," he said, shaking hands cordially. "I have been looking over the notes of a case and trying to make up my mind about it. You are just in the nick of time to give me some help with it."

"Well, I don't know that I shall be of much assistance, sir. It seems to me that my brain is pretty well addled." The inspector laughed as he took the chair that Crasster indicated opposite to his own. "As a matter of fact I have come up hoping that you would let me talk over one or two little matters with you—things that are puzzling me a bit."

"Are they in connection with the Abbey Court case?" Crasster's face had grown suddenly grave. His hand, as he resumed his seat, beat a restless tattoo on the arm of his chair. "Well, inspector, what is it? Anything fresh?"

"Well, it is and it isn't, sir," the inspector replied enigmatically. He drew out his notebook, and, extracting an envelope, handed it to Stephen. "This came by this morning's post."

Stephen looked at it curiously. It was addressed to Mr. Lennox at the Carew Arms, in odd-looking handwriting—one that sloped backwards and was evidently disguised.

"Well?" he said at last inquiringly. "What sort of a communication is this, inspector? One would say at first sight that your correspondent did not wish to be identified."

The inspector smiled. "Precisely the case, I fancy, sir. However, will you read the enclosure?"

Crasster made an involuntary movement of distaste as he drew out the thin oblong sheet of paper, and saw the crooked misshapen writing inside:

"If Inspector Furnival wishes to inquire into Lady Carew's antecedents he will be able to get all the information he requires from Canon Rankin of St. Barnabas' Vicarage, Chelsea. The Canon might also be questioned with regard to a mysterious visitor who came in one day this spring. These hints may be more useful to Inspector Furnival than anything he will obtain from the maid, Célestine, and they are offered for his consideration by a well-wisher."

Stephen read the rancorous words over twice, then he flicked the paper on the table contemptuously.

"From Célestine herself?" he hazarded.

The inspector smiled as he shook his head. "No, Célestine hasn't discovered my real business yet. That paper was bought in Chesterham village, sir. I made it my business as soon as this epistle arrived to go round all the little shops in the neighbourhood and discover, if possible, where it was purchased. I ran it to earth at an old dame's in Chesterham village. I laid in a stock of it myself, and the old lady was quite pleased, and said she would have to order extra supplies, as it was quite wonderful how the gentry were taking to it."

Stephen raised his eyebrows. "Gentry?" he questioned gently.

The inspector laughed. "She said that a lady who was staying at General Wilton's a week or two ago came in one afternoon and bought a whole box."

"You surely don't mean—" said Stephen.

Inspector Furnival nodded. "Lady Palmer, sir. There can't be any question about that. I have compared the writing too, with a specimen of hers that I managed to get, and I don't feel any doubt at all that it is hers. My mind might not have gone straight to her, though, but for Célestine," he added candidly. "She told me one day how Lady Palmer was always asking her questions about Lady Carew, and now she is a widow, and none too well off, and Sir Anthony has come into the title and estates, nothing would suit Lady Palmer better than to get rid of Lady Carew. Do you take me, sir?"

Crasster did not answer for a minute. He sat looking at the paper; at last he raised his eyes.

"How could Lady Palmer have become possessed of the information that this note presupposes?"

The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "It is impossible to say, sir, otherwise than that probably Célestine on her dismissal from Heron's Carew did not hold her tongue. However, that is neither here nor there. I brought this note to you to show you that our time is short. Something will have to be done soon."

Stephen got up and threw open the window as though the atmosphere stifled him.

"The woman must be a perfect fiend!"

The inspector smiled as one tolerant of the idiosyncrasies of the weaker sex.

"Ah, well, sir, when jealousy gets hold of a woman! There is something else I have got to show you, Mr. Crasster." He drew a small package done up in brown paper from his pocket and began to open it. When at last the inspector laid the opened paper upon the table, he turned. "There sir."

Stephen leaned forward eagerly; then as he saw the object lying in the midst of such careful unfolding, he looked amazed. "Why, what is this, inspector? Surely nothing but an ordinary latch-key."

The inspector gazed at it almost affectionately; then he turned and glanced sharply at the other man's interested face.

"It is Mr. C. Warden's latch-key, sir, found in his pocket after death."

"Oh!" Stephen looked puzzled. "I remember; it was among the contents of his pocket. But I don't see what you are doing with it now, inspector. Where does it come in?"

Inspector Furnival smiled quietly, not ill-pleased.

"Well, I think it will ultimately form an important link in our chain of evidence, sir. If you will examine it a little more closely I think you will come to the same conclusion."

Crasster picked up a magnifying glass, and laying the key on the table bent over it a minute or two without speaking. At last he looked up.

"I see particles of wax adhering to the wards."

Inspector Furnival nodded as he looked at him. "The inference being that some one had an impression in wax taken of the key, or lock, or both?"

"Of—of—course." Stephen sprang to his feet in his excitement. "Then this clears Lady Carew. It proves—"

"Nothing," the inspector said curtly.

Crasster standing up now on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire-place, glanced at the other man's expressionless face.

"It proves nothing except that another person, probably not Warden himself, had taken means to procure a key to the flat," the inspector went on after a pause. "It would count for nothing in comparison with the weight of evidence against Lady Carew. And yet it does give us a loophole—"

"We must work it up," Stephen exclaimed eagerly. "It gives me real hope, Furnival. My heart has been as heavy as lead these last few days, though I knew there wasn't—there couldn't be—anything in your theories. With this we shall clear both Sir Anthony and Lady Carew yet."

"We may implicate Sir Anthony, it seems to me, sir," the inspector said slowly. "For anything we know yet, sir.

"Implicate Sir Anthony!" Crasster stared at him.

"I said, for anything we know yet," the detective corrected. "It may be that Sir Anthony found out where her ladyship was going, and provided himself beforehand with the means of getting into the flat, and ascertaining what went on during her interview with Warden. Mind, I don't say this is my view of the case, but it is one which has found some belief at headquarters. My chief is not inclined to believe in the possibility of any third person being mixed up in the affair."

Looking at the detective's impassive face, listening to his carefully modulated voice, Crasster felt his heart sink. He had been telling himself, ever since he saw the detective on the preceding Monday, that there must be some way out of this horrible impasse in which the Carews were involved. To-day, however, it seemed to Crasster that Furnival spoke as if the matter were one entirely out of his control, as if he had to some extent lost interest in it.

"What are you going to do now?" Crasster questioned.

The inspector looked up as if startled from a daydream. "Well, I have a plan, sir. Not much of one, but still it may answer. I should have put it into execution to-day but for this illness of the child's."

"Child's, what child's?" Stephen questioned. "What child is ill?"

Furnival looked surprised. "I thought you would have heard, sir. Sir Anthony Carew's little boy. They telegraphed to London for a specialist an hour ago."

"What?" Stephen looked at him in consternation. "It must be terribly sudden. I saw him last night, he was all right then."

"Children are like that," the inspector observed philosophically.

Stephen hardly heard the conclusion of the sentence. He looked at his watch.

"You will forgive me, inspector, I must go over and see how the boy is."

The inspector stood up and buttoned his coat. "I must be getting back too, sir. There may be some news waiting for me. If you will be so good as to give me a lift, I shall be greatly obliged."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said Crasster cordially. "Though I wish you would stay, inspector."

"Not to-day thank you, sir."

It was a drive of nine miles from Talgarth to Heron's Carew, but Stephen's powerful car made short work of the distance. The night was dark and threatening. The air was sultry and heavy with the weight that presages the coming of the storm, To Stephen it seemed prophetic; the very elements were in sympathy with his mood, with the tragedy that overhung Heron's Carew. He put the inspector down at the Carew Arms and drove on to Heron's Carew. As he passed the Dower House he caught sight of a white figure leaning against the gate. With a quick exclamation he stopped the car and sprang out. "Peggy, what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for Dr. Bennett." The girl let him take her cold hand in his; she looked at him with dull, uncomprehending eyes. "Paul is ill, you know, they say he is dying. They—Judith—sent me to tell Mother, because she always loved him, and the shock has made her quite ill, so ill that I can't leave her and go back to Heron's Carew. So I came down here to watch for Dr. Bennett to ask him—"

"You poor child," Stephen said tenderly. "Let me take you back to the house, Peggy. I will go up to Heron's Carew and bring you back word how he is."

She let him draw her arm through his and lead her up the drive. She shivered, her fingers clung more closely to Stephen's arm.

"I—I am frightened, Stephen," she whispered.

He looked down at her with a smile. "Of what, Peggy?"

She gave a little hoarse sob. "Of—of everything."

"Of everything. Nonsense!" Stephen spoke in a tone of calm authority. "Paul's illness has upset you, of course."

Presently, there rose the low rumbling of distant thunder.

"There!" Peggy caught her breath. "It is coming. I can feel it. And—and—" She drew Stephen onward quickly. She looked up at him with big, fear-laden eyes; her lips trembled; the hand lying on his arm shook as if with ague. "I have helped to bring trouble. What shall I do, Stephen? What shall I do?"

Inside the hall Crasster stopped determinedly. "You are overwrought, tired out, Peggy. And there is thunder in the air. It upsets many people. Promise me you will put these fears aside, and to-morrow, when Paul is better—"

Peggy had dropped his arm now. She stood apart, her white face lifted to the sky. To his last sentence she apparently paid no heed at all.

"There are other things in the air to-night as well as thunder," she said breathlessly. "There is trouble and treachery and—and worse. It is terrible not to know, to wait here and imagine the horrors the darkness hides. Oh, Stephen, when shall we—"

A forked, zigzag tongue of blue flame seemed to shoot right between them, almost simultaneously the thunder broke overhead, and pealed and reverberated around.

With a despairing cry Peggy turned and rushed into the house.