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POINTER left Harris talking to the shepherd and walked on. The first house he came to was set back behind some cedars, but it had two gates opening on to the common, and would have been in full view of the ruins were it not for a deep bend in the road and some tall trees. An obliging postman had told him already that it was Mr. Bellairs's studio.

He swung the gate open and looked around him. There was no one about. The windows, of the bungalow-like building were all shuttered. Close to the front steps was a patch of grease and oil. A car must have stood there a couple of days ago. The path was too narrow for its wheels to mark the gravel; The knocker next interested the caller. Some one had nearly wrenched it off. And long ago. Pointer opened the door with one of his own keys.

The studio itself was a black and white and gold affair, superbly lit from behind a gilt cornice.

In front of one of the four fireplaces a black rug made an oasis, on which gilt Bergère chairs with thick black satin cushions stood around a gilt table.

Pointer walked the black and white marble squares of floor carefully, looking them over inch by inch.

He heard steps outside. Superintendent Harris had followed him, and was breathless with shocked amazement at this infringement of a fellow-Briton's castle.

"I'm glad the inspector isn't with us. You big-wigs of the Yard are the limit!" He looked fearfully about him. "Not a search warrant between the pair of us!"

Pointer swept a flake of black sealing-wax on to a sheet of paper and examined it. It matched the other dots that he had found in Rose's chain bag and in the empty registered envelope beneath the tea-table.

Then he began examining the built-in cupboards. In one was a black and gold Spanish tray set with gleaming amber glass. There were peaches, and strawberries, and a few macaroons. A small decanter with some Château Yquem, a beautiful crystal jug, evidently intended for water, and a couple of glasses, finished the preparations.

"I don't call that much of a spread," Harris said "Not for a young lady, I don't. Just a bite for himself, I fancy. Nothing's been eaten, I see."

Pointer thought that the tray showed a very good knowledge of Rose Charteris's tastes. She never touched wine, she never ate cake, and the fruit was perfect. But he continued his search without speaking.

"Looking for anything in particular?"'Harris asked.

"Miss Charteris's portrait."

"Eh?" Harris almost dropped the tray.

"Well, a studio suggests a painting. So does an R.A.," Pointer went on casually. "Suppose she was here to have her portrait painted, that might explain that pretty, frock under the knitted dress, and yet the fact that she didn't bother about shoes and stockings to match. It's the only explanation that I can see. I rather expect to find the picture damaged," he went on, half to himself.

It certainly was. Some one had hacked at it till it hung from the stretcher in ribbons, and then stuffed the whole behind a black velvet screen.

Rose's face in particular had been cut and cut again. There was something cruel about the way that the damage been done. It suggested a ferocious pleasure. But nothing could undo the fact that it was a three-quarter size painting of Miss Charteris.

In her pale peach silk frock with a knot of pink and the camellias on one shoulder tied with silver, and another gleam of silver at one hip, she sat in a gilt arm-chair, her white shoulders coming up like a tea rose from gold shadows around her. One hand toyed with a line of deep purple amethysts that ran around her neck on to her knee. The men gazed long at it. Bellairs caught something of a Rose whom even the superintendent had never seen. The young face was turned up, a wistful, eager, inquiring gaze, and the effect, considering the darkness even then about to close around that head, was tragic.

Harris's eyes were dim as he moved away.

"It doesn't seem possible," Pointer said at length, "that the man who painted this had anything to do with the murder of the girl there on that canvas. No, it doesn't seem possible."

"Mr. Bellairs gave my boy Arty French lessons, and helped him to get his first place in town." The superintendent spoke as though that clinched the certainty of the young man's innocence.

"My boy Arty" lay with many another father's only son in one of those corners of France that are for ever England, but to the superintendent he still lived on.

"As for the picture, painted by Bellairs right enough, but signed by—" Pointer began wrapping the torn picture in paper.

"Signed?" asked the literal Harris.

"Someone learns of these meetings," Pointer went on, "and gets them to open that front door at last. Then the canvas is chopped up. Now I wonder who would be likely to do all that?" He looked at Harris with a smile.

"Sort of thing one might expect of the count." Harris began to think that he, too, might have distinguished himself in the detective line.

Pointer was off again, continuing his search of the room. He stopped before one of the windows by the side door. The pulley arrangement was out of order. Some one had not waited to find out which acorn, the black or the gold, would open the heavy velvet curtains, but had jerked them apart, and the cords almost off the eyelets. He looked at the sill and then at the other window-sills. Only one showed those newly-made scratchings.

Stooping, he picked up an amethyst bead, and an opened link of silver chain. He examined the catch of the casement window.

"Looks as if she caught her chain of beads on that as she jumped out of the window—probably at the time that the Count was performing his fantasia on the front door. I wonder how she made her way home?" Pointer mused.

"I particularly questioned Maud about Miss Rose's shoes when she saw her at ten, as you told me," Harris put in. "She says they were quite clean."

"That means some one must have taken her home in a car. There were no taxis going begging Thursday night in Medchester, because of the concert. And, by the way, Harris, I wish you'd ask about, and find out, who really saw Miss Scarlett or Mrs. Lane there, and whether at the beginning, middle, or end of the entertainment. Try Doctor Metcalfe."

Harris's eyes bulged his question.

"Oh, just as a matter of routine. Just to check off all statements."

Harris made a note of it.

"It wouldn't be Miss Scarlett, in any case, who drove her cousin home," he assured the other. "She never drives at night. Too timid. Mrs. Lane now, she likes a bit of a risk all right."

Pointer thought of the garden mould on Sibella's shoe-buckles. But he went on with his work, testing each piece of furniture by laying hold of the back, and shaking it vigorously. When he did this to the table, a leg promptly parted company.

Harris, with a householder's feeling for another's property, would have stooped with an exclamation, but Pointer grasped his arm.

"Hold hard a minute. Your finger-prints aren't wanted, old chap!" Pointer lifted the leg as though it were a blazing faggot, and looked carefully at the break. It had been wrenched off the table, and very recently. He tested it for finger-prints and smiled a little as he looked at them.

"By the look of it, some one swung this around his head like a club. Now let's see." He opened his notebook. "They're Count di Monti's," he said after using a magnifying glass for some very careful minutes.

"When did you get his?"

"This afternoon he took a glass of soda water. Remember? I took care of that glass afterwards. So now we stand like this. We think Miss Charteris was here because of her frocks, the portrait, the fruit tray, and the marks on the window. We know di Monti was here, and in a fury because of these prints. The other finger-prints sprinkled all about so freely will doubtless turn out to be those of Bellairs himself. And now I'm done here."

At Medchester police station they found that Inspector Rodman had carried out Pointer's instructions very successfully.

Lady Maxwell had been informed that a navy evening frock of hers had been found among some stolen property which the police had just recovered.

The lady was both surprised and impressed by the speed with which it had been traced to her. Rodman had merely told her that "the force has its own ways, madam," with some inward amusement as to exactly what those ways had been.

He wanted to know whether it had been as crumpled as now when last seen.

Lady Maxwell thought that it had been shamefully treated by the thieves. The maid thought that the ill-treatment had taken place at Stillwater House. Between the two, of them, Rodman, listening avidly, and putting a few questions now and then, had managed to get a clear account.

The frock was quite new. Lady Maxwell had worn it for the first time at dinner at Stillwater House on Thursday and torn it. As the frock had cost some thousands of francs, simple though it looked, she had gladly accepted Mrs. Lane's offer to send it for her next morning to a woman in Medchester who did beautiful "invisible mending."

After dinner, when she went to her rooms, her maid had folded it up and laid it on the hall table for Mrs. Lane to see to in the morning. And when the terrible accident to Miss Charteris decided her mistress to hurry away, the maid found it still on the table, but tightly rolled up in paper, and very crushed.

Mrs. Lane, had come up herself a little later, and offered to still have it mended in Medchester. She had pressed Lady Maxwell to accept her offer, but that lady finally decided to take it to town with her.

Its loss from the hotel had been discovered at once, but it was believed that by some oversight it must have been taken to the cleaners.

Rodman's explanation, such as it was, evidently cut short a very promising triangular duel between mistress, and maid, and cleaner.

"So we now know that the frock might have been slipped on by any of the women in Stillwater House that night," Rodman muttered.

Pointer nodded. "Just so."

He proceeded to give the two police-officers a straight, condensed account of what he had found yesterday morning at the summer house down by the lake.

Harris said afterwards that if he hadn't had the presence of mind to catch hold of his jaw it would have fallen off altogether.

Even Rodman gaped.

"So those beads that were found by the sand-pit must have tumbled out of Miss Charteris's frock when they lifted her body off the truck."

Barns remembered the two brought him.

"Now," Pointer finished, "we want to find out three things of almost equal importance.

"First, who was the man of the summer house. He was not of what I call the Stillwater circle. That is, he wasn't the colonel, nor Mr. Thornton, nor Mr. Bellairs nor Count di Monti, nor Mr. Bond, nor Mr. Cockburn, nor any of the menservants. I've seen all their fingerprints by now."

He went on to speak of the probable connection between the stranger and the letter received by the colonel on Wednesday noon.

"It was delivered by the chauffeur of a Sir Henry Carew.

"Who's he?"

"Neighbour of the colonel's. Late of the same regiment. Tons of money."

"Married?" asked Pointer.

"Grandfather," Harris said triumphantly, in a tone that nipped any romantic suppositions in the bud.

"Any sons?"

"One. Fell at Givenchy."

"Then very probably he sent the colonel a warning."

"Ah, he would do that!" Harris quite approved of this idea.

"According to Paul, the colonel dined with him on Wednesday in town, and spent the evening with him, getting back about half-past twelve."

"They're often together," Harris threw in "Sir Henry, for one thing, owns a horse at this moment that the colonel's going to back for all he's worth, I hear. I'm rather inclined myself to—"

Pointer brought the talk back to the matter in hand, and ran over the possible suppositions about the unknown man who had lain on the bed of the summer house, very much as he had done to O'Connor, but in a tabulated, abbreviated form.

"That's the first point. The second we want to find out is, who was the man who pushed the carrier to the sand-pit. Thirdly, we want to trace out the woman who walked beside the man. She probably wore the stained blue dress. So much for the main facts. As to the motive for the murder—there's the idea of jealousy. We have two men and two women belonging to Miss Charteris's own circle that might have something to say to that. Bellairs and the count, Mrs. Lane and Miss Scarlett.

"The count, you remember, said that not only had he a perfect alibi for all Thursday evening and night from eight on, but that he was going to bring down two friends, a Prince Cornaro and a Mr. del Greco, a relation of the Italian Ambassador, to confirm it. We know there was a meeting at which he spoke at eleven, but if he was late he could have reached it after Miss Charteris was killed. However, if his alibi's as good as he says, he's out of it—seemingly.

"As for Mr. Bellairs, of course, in the ordinary way, we should ask for an explanation at once about that studio of his. But he's staying at Windsor Castle until Tuesday, painting a portrait of the Queen for the coming World's Conference of Women. But now, suppose the motive isn't jealousy, or anything in that line. Suppose Miss Rose's death was to some one's advantage—"

"Ah, but it wasn't!" put in Harris almost gleefully. "Not advantage enough to the Stillwater lot. Miss Sibella gets that Italian legacy, if it's ever paid, and that's all the profit there is. Her money don't come to the colonel till after her father's death. I've been talking to Mr. Gilchrist."

"I suppose the count's too wealthy to feel the pinch of letting the property go?" Inspector Rodman puzzled aloud, "but, of course, now there's only one girl to marry."

Harris turned on him quizzically.

"Look here, he's an Italian, not a Mormon."

"What I mean, sir, is this. That Italian property went to Miss Charteris, and, after her death, to Miss Scarlett, and then back to the di Monti. Now Miss Charteris's gone, if the count marries Miss Scarlett, it takes it back into the family at once, as it were?"

"I thought it went to Miss Scarlett permanent to will away," Harris said after a pause. "Let's look at the papers. I laid a note of her money affairs in with 'em."

He opened the safe and took out a parcel, untied it, and then started.

"Why, they're gone! These newspapers have been put in instead."

"When were they out of your keeping?" Pointer asked equably.

"The chief asked to see them, so I sent Briggs up there, yesterday about seven. The major sent them back again about nine. Mr. Thornton returned them. He'd been dining there."

"Who else was at Major Vaughan's at dinner, do you know?"

"Only the colonel, Briggs said."

"You may be sure that any one even remotely connected with the case would look in in the course of the evening," Pointer said a little grimly.

"I know the count did for a fact. But, Alf, the major wouldn't show these papers to outsiders—"

"But he might leave them in some downstairs room, tied up, labelled, and ready to be sent back."

Rodman nodded. He thought that the chief constable might very easily have done that.

"But," Harris tried to keep his head above water, "they were only letters, except that note I shoved in, only Miss Rose's letters—".

"Just so," Pointer said briskly. "Letters. Possibly some one thought that that missing enclosure the professor sent his daughter, and which no one seems able to trace, might be there too."

"You thought that flake of sealing-wax on the table at the studio meant it had been there. Perhaps she had handed it over to some one, Mr. Bellairs, say."

"Possibly. I've written to him to ask for a full account of how he spent Thursday night, from eight onwards. But that flake was on a little table by the door, you know, not on the central table. It looks to me more as though the black-sealed envelope had been merely laid down on the small table to be out of the way."

"Pity one can't just ask the professor what the letter, and second, inside envelope, is all about," Harris said.

"The colonel is inserting an advertisement in all the Italian, French, and Balkan newspapers addressed to his brother-in-law, and asking him to return immediately. That ought to reach him soon, wherever he is." And with that, Pointer left his two helpers and began to look through the reports that had been sent down by a motor cyclist from Scotland Yard.

He learnt that no hospital had taken in any case on Thursday night that could possibly be connected with the man he wanted. Private nursing-homes were being investigated, but they would take time, as all inquiries were to be so carefully made. A list was furnished the Chief Inspector of all the doctors and surgeons who attended the French hospital in Soho. One of these, Pointer noted, had a nursing-home in a smart part of the West end. He was Sir Martin Martineau. In accordance with his instructions, very special inquiries had been made there, but they had led to nothing.

Pointer filed the notes and went out for a stroll. The stroll took him to Doctor Metcalfe's. But that young man's flood of gossip had nothing in it which threw any new light on the facts of the case, and Pointer decided finally that perhaps sleep was not a mere luxury, even in the beginning of a case, and, following Harris's example, was soon himself tucked up in a room of the superintendent's. For Brown had taken his departure from Red Gates before the inquest.

Next morning he was early up at Stillwater House for a chat with Paul, who liked him.

"Nothing has been changed, I suppose?" Pointer asked, following him into the deserted dining-room.

"No, sir. Funeral's at three," Paul said sadly. "Hasn't been a funeral of anybody under sixty from this house since I've been in service here. And me having been born on the estate can be relied on for facts. And to think of its being our Miss Rose now. It still don't seem real sometimes."

"Ladies going?" asked Pointer.

Paul said they were.

"With whom is Mrs. Lane driving?" Pointer asked again.

"With Miss Sibella. At least—well—that had been so arranged, but they've had a little—ahem, ladies will be ladies," Paul finished obscurely.

"Trouble, eh?" Pointer offered him a cigar. "Mrs. Lane looks to me as if she had a bit of a temper."

Paul eyed him in mild amazement.

"Then I should try glasses, sir," he said finally. "Mrs. Lane's as gentle a creature as ever stepped. Now, Miss Sibella—"

"What was the trouble between the ladies about?"

"I don't rightly know myself. It took place at dinner last night. The colonel started talking about the concert. You would not be aware of that, sir, but there was a concert in Medchester on the Thursday night, the last night our Miss Rose was alive."

"Was there indeed?" came from Pointer.

"They were all joining in friendly like, when all at once you could hear sort of daggers in the ladies' voices. Don't ask me what it was about. Talking of the concert, they were, as I said. Mrs. Lane only said that she thought she had heard more of the music than Miss Sibella, or something like that, when our young lady gets up, and says she isn't accustomed to have her word doubted, 'not even by Mrs. Seymour's late companion,' she says, with a nasty little laugh, and I could hardly get to the door in time, before she sailed through."

"Humph, and then?"

"The colonel, he looked—well, you know how a man feels when the women about him get to nagging each other—he looked just like that. And after a minute he said, 'I'm afraid poor Sibella's nerves are upset by this terrible affair.' Mrs. Lane she sits there, trying to keep the tears back, I thought, till she suddenly jumps up, and says low, but boiling over as it were, 'And so are mine!' And with that she leaves the colonel, too. The colonel he says, 'Good God! It's past bearing!' And then he went to his study."

Pointer filled in the gaps as he walked away. So Mrs. Lane and Sibella were not on the best of terms.

As he passed Red Gates he heard voices in the little arbour. Pushing open the gate, he caught sight of Thornton talking to Cockburn, who had come with Bond for the funeral.

"Look here! Should one, or should one not, tell all that one suspects in a case of this kind, as well as all that one knows? Terrible to bring suspicion on the wrong person." Cockburn's voice was hesitating.

"Worse to let the right person escape!" came from Bond, in the balcony above them.

"I like to be sure I'm right before I go ahead," murmured Cockburn doubtfully.

"And I like to be sure I'm wrong, before I stop," Bond retorted firmly.

"I think," Thornton's voice came thoughtfully, "I think I should feel it my duty to tell everything, even though it incriminated my nearest and dearest."

Pointer sincerely trusted that Mr. Thornton was speaking the truth. But he did not feel sure.

"You would, eh?" Cockburn seemed to have some difficulty in accepting the ruling.

"You're a thorough chap, Thornton. That's what I like about you," Bond said approvingly. But Cockburn seemed wrestling with doubts.

"That's easily said," he muttered around his pipe stem, "but take a man, an innocent man, as innocent as you, or I, of Miss Charteris's murder, and let him do something suspicious. I don't quite see—" His voice fell off.

Thornton repeated firmly that he would tell everything, and let the man clear himself.

"Excellently put, sir." Pointer stepped out into the tiny pergola. Thornton seemed to realise, that his emphasis-might have given away the topic, so he said lightly:

"Oh, I'm only quoting from a friend's play I'm reading."

"That's what the hero says, I suppose," Cockburn grumbled.

"Or perhaps what the villain says to throw others off the track," Pointer suggested suavely, looking at Thornton. Had he, or had he not, lent that car of his last Thursday night?

"Suppose it's just an onlooker's speech. Just a puzzled onlooker's," Thornton parried.

"Puzzled because what he knows won't square with what he hears?" Pointer asked.

The eyes of the two men met and locked.

"Look here, Co., we're in the way." Bond jumped up.

"Oh, I don't think that I'm going to be arrested yet." Thornton gave his sardonic smile. "Have a chair and a cigar, Chief Inspector?"

Pointer took the first, and produced his briar. "You were saying, Mr. Cockburn—"

"Oh, just fancies—generalities," Cockburn spoke a little shyly. "It's about last Thursday. I felt something was in the air down here at Stillwater, and I've just been wondering whether it could have anything to do with a story, I heard last night. There's a girl I know in town, who knows Bellairs jolly well. She thinks he means to marry, her. Perhaps he does."

"Perhaps he doesn't," Bond put in sceptically.

"She says, this girl I'm speaking of, that Bellairs saw quite a good deal of Miss Charteris lately. She's convinced that he was down here at his studio last Thursday night, though she has no proof. Of course, this may only be her jealous imaginings, but on Thursday, I thought—" Cockburn broke off vaguely.

"You thought?" Pointer prompted, after a little wait.

"Well, supposing, the colonel and di Monti had got wind of the same story? Di Monti played a single with Miss Charteris after tea, and I never saw such serves, nor such returns—to a girl. By Jove, he as good as tried to bang her with the ball more than once."

"Oh, come now!" Bond gave a laugh of sheer incredulity.

"Fact! Miss Scarlett, who was looking on, too, made some comment about his playing so hard, and he got himself in hand a bit after that. But the man was in a murderous temper. Absolutely murderous. And," Cockburn went on doggedly, "you, too, noticed the look on the colonel's face when we heard that shot on Thursday?"

He had turned again to Thornton, who nodded shortly "Well, there isn't any one who carries a revolver around here but the count. A Facistt is always armed, he told us once. I'm convinced that the colonel half-feared the truth then. And what about those blood-stained bits of cord we tried to match in the colonel's study when you caught us, Chief Inspector? It was the cord that the colonel had given di Monti, though we didn't know that then."

The four men sat awhile in silence.

"Is di Monti being watched?" Bond asked suddenly.

"My dear Bond, we're all being watched!" Thornton snapped out in a tone which suddenly charged the atmosphere with menace. Murder had been done. The murderer was still at large. Something grim and horrible showed its vague outline. The monstrous deed seemed to loom nearer.

Pointer shook his head.

"I'm sorry to bring you all down to humdrum earth, but don't think you have any idea how expensive the watching of three people would be. I'm afraid that only the possible criminal gets as far as that."

"Supposing there isn't a criminal?" Thornton said abruptly, and as always with him, Pointer had the impression that his speech had been looked over, inspected, before he allowed it out. "Suppose there has been no crime?" He was watching the chief inspector as he spoke.

"Suppose what, instead, then?" Pointer asked curiously.

"I hardly know—an accident, for instance, and some attempt to cover it up?"

Pointer had asked himself that question very seriously at first, but he had thought even then that the efforts to cover up all traces of the death having taken place at the summer house were too intense. Those steps along that short-cut, behind the dead girl's body, straightening her bier, while wearing her shoes! Would any woman do such a thing unless the need were of the most extreme urgency? Apart from everything else, he thought not. If either of the women were Mrs. Lane, or Sibella Scarlett, he was sure not. That it was one of them, the disarrangement of Rose Charteris's bed seemed to prove conclusively. Only these two, barring the servants, would have easy access to Rose's room, would think of the sketching box.

"That's an interesting theory," he said. "Could you enlarge on it at all, sir?"

No. Thornton said that he had no data, but that all along he had had a feeling that some most unfortunate combination of circumstances had made Miss Charteris's death look as though a crime had been committed, when possibly it was only a blunder.

"Bond and Co." seemed to find much food for thought in the novel theory. Pointer went off, saying that he must think it over. Perhaps Mr. Thornton would think it over, too, and let him know if anything bearing out his idea occurred to him.

He himself took up an inconspicuous position near Stillwater's front door. Lady Maxwell was the first to arrive for the funeral. She was shown into the drawing-room, and Pointer decided that the Virginia creeper beside it needed more attention than it had had from him. He was busy examining the trellis when Sibella entered the room. For a while the talk was a very one-sided affair. Pointer got the impression that Sibella did not like her visitor any too well. Or else she was so wrapped in her own dark thoughts that it was only with difficulty that she could rouse herself to take any interest in what the other was saying. One such momentary flicker came when the name of a Miss Winter was mentioned.

"Miss Winter?" Sibella said, as though miles away. "Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Seymour's cousin."

"Yes, the head mistress of Biswell. She and Mr. Seymour practically lived together. She's abroad, unfortunately, just now. But I wired her at once, as soon as I saw the statement in the papers, and she wired back that she had never heard the name of Lane, and that her cousin never had a companion."

"Surely we don't need to discuss this now? There might be a truce to-day? All such things seem so petty." Sibella spoke very low.

"But in view of Rose's having been murdered, Sib, darling, every moment may be of value. The woman may try to run away. You don't know who she is. Your father is such a good sort that he would never suspect anything wrong. Rose never liked her."

"I know, but—" Sibella seemed to have no strength to waste in argument. "Oh, well, let us get it over it then. What is it you want to do?"

"I don't want anything," Lady Maxwell spoke with some acerbity, "but I think the police should be told at once that the reference is false—" The door into the hall was standing open. The colonel appeared with telegram in his hand.

"Bellairs says he can't—" He stopped at sight of the woman talking to his daughter. He tried to back noiselessly away, but Lady Maxwell called him. Apparently the colonel did not hear her, for the door of the study shut very swiftly, but not before the watcher outside saw the look of alarm that was on it. The visitor, with a murmured word of apology or explanation, rose and went after him.

Sibella paid no heed. She sat with her forehead leaning on her hand, her eyes closed.

A minute later and Mrs. Lane came in. She was very pale, with purple shadows around her eyes. Coming across to the girl, she put her arm around the slender shoulders.

"Sibella, my dear, I thought you would be here alone. I want to say—" Her, voice was very gentle, but Sibella jumped to her feet, her long, black gloves falling to the floor.

"Oh! They're bringing her—IT—down the stairs! Talk to me! Talk to me! For God's sake don't let me hear the sound of those heavy steps! Don't!"

She grasped Mrs. Lane's arm, trembling violently. Mrs. Lane, too, looked as though she were all but fainting. Pointer thought that only a very unusual will kept her upright on her feet. Her face was green white. Her breath came in little gasps. In silence the two women inside the room, and Pointer outside, heard the heavy tramp and scuffle as the top of the stairs were turned.

Sibella fell back into her chair.

"Rose! Rose, who always ran down them!" She was almost writhing as she put her fingers into her ears. Mrs. Lane hid her face in her hands.

There came a sudden, loud peremptory knock at the door.

It was the coffin, one corner of which struck it in turning.

Sibella's head and shoulders plunged forward. She was in a dead faint, and Mrs. Lane looked as though one straw more would break her.

Lady Maxwell returned. There were tears in her eyes. She had met the men at their task. The lady-housekeeper waited till she bent over Sibella. Then she felt for the door-knob as though unable to see it.

Di Monti almost collided with her as he stepped in hastily. He was obviously, giving the undertaker's men more room. The strange thing was that he stepped in with a look of fierce satisfaction on his face. It vanished as he helped Lady Maxwell lay the girl on the sofa.

"All the better if she doesn't hear them carry the coffin out of doors. Though it's really quite absurd. Giving way like this. It isn't as if they had been fond of each other. But Sib always was one to let her feelings run off With her. Now she's coming to." Lady Maxwell spoke as one who had scant sympathy with weakness.

"You are mistaken, Lady Maxwell," di Monti said in his most formal manner, "I happen to know that Miss Rose was very fond of Miss Sibella indeed. These last days especially."

"I shouldn't overdo it, if I were you," was the lady's caustic and rather surprising reply.

Di Monti looked as though he had been struck. His eyes flashed, his face crimsoned. His upstanding top-locks quivered. But he only bowed, and at that moment Pointer had to move away from the window, for Paul was looking for him.

Pointer's mind as he drove in the funeral cortège was with the two women whom he had watched in such a convulsion of feeling.

Each felt herself guilty. Was it only in some measure, or in full measure? A good deal would depend on temperament. But even allowing for the most highly strung nerves—and both Sibella and Mrs. Lane possessed that doubtful blessing, there was more here than they would explain. Some knowledge, some fact, some deed, lay behind such emotion. Of that Pointer was sure.

The afternoon of Rose Charteris's funeral was a marvel of song and bloom and scent. It was the May of the poets, of bud-swollen branches and filmy green leaves. The pink of the crab apple trees around the old churchyard showed up in spaced beauty against the wild cherries. The blackthorns reached their snowy arms, beginning to look a little ragged, from out the beautiful young green of their cousins, the hawthorns, whose blossoms were only a promise, a closely-kept secret, as yet.

The pale-green bud clusters of the hollies were just tinging into white, but a cloud of their blue butterflies—symbol and warning—swept past the mourners' faces like a delicate smoke wreath, on the first flight of their lives. A thrush sang a wonderful song as they lowered the body of Rose into the earth to which it was to return.

The service affected the men officially engaged in the hunt very keenly. There was not one who did not swear to himself a vow—by that bole in the ground, by that oblong box—to do his utmost to see that the murderer paid.

After Colonel Scarlett had dropped the first earth on to the coffin, di Monti stepped forward. From his handful came a rattle that made the clergyman peer over his prayer-book. Some stones must have got picked up as well. Di Monti did not seem to have heard them, as, with bent head, he stood beside Scarlett, a picture of mourning.