ring, there’s a good chap, Jenkins. And if he’s there, you might ask him to come down.”

It struck me that I might at least ascertain from Cassavetti what he knew of Anne. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

Jenkins departed on his errand, and half a minute later I heard a yell that brought me to my feet with a bound.

“Hello, what’s up?” I called, and rushed up the stairs, to meet Jenkins at the top, white and shaking.

“Look there, sir,” he stammered. “What is it? ’Twasn’t there this morning, when I turned the lights out, I’ll swear!”

He pointed to the door-sill, through which was oozing a sluggish, sinister-looking stream of dark red fluid.

“It’s—it’s blood!” he whispered.

I had seen that at the first glance.

“Shall I go for the police?”

“No,” I said sharply. “He may be only wounded.”

I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible little pool.

“Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?” I shouted; but there was no answer.

“Stand aside. I’m going to break the lock,” I cried.

I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, and [Pg 47]caught at the lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung inwards,—to rebound from something that it struck against.

[Pg 47]

I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and beckoned Jenkins to follow.

Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.

It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart.

[Pg 48]

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