"Yes, my lord, she was here first in the time of Lord Wilmersley's mother, and 'is lordship brought 'er back again when he returned from 'is 'oneymoon. Lady Wilmersley never left these rooms without 'aving either 'is lordship, Mustapha, or Valdriguez with 'er."

"Very good, Douglas, you can go now."

"A pretty state of things!" cried Cyril when the door closed behind the butler. "Here in civilised England a poor young creature is kept in confinement with a Spanish woman and a Turk to watch over her, and no one thinks of demanding an investigation! It's monstrous!"

"My boy, you're right. Never liked the man myself--confess it now--but I didn't know anything against him. Pretty difficult to interfere, what? Never occurred to me to do so."

"I am deeply pained by your attitude to your unfortunate cousin, who paid with his life for his devotion to an afflicted woman. I feel it my duty to say that your suspicions are unworthy of you. I must go now; I have some parochial duties to attend to." And with scant ceremony the vicar stalked out of the room.

"It's getting late, I see. Must be off too. Can't be late for dinner--wife, you know. Why don't you come with me--gloomy here--delighted to put you up. Do come," urged Twombley.

"Thanks awfully, not to-night. I'm dead beat. It's awfully good of you to suggest it, though."

"Not at all; sorry you won't come. See you at the inquest," said Twombley as he took his departure followed by the coroner.

Cyril remained where they left him. He was too weary to move. Before him on the desk lay his cousin's blotter. Its white surface still bore the impress of the latter's thick, sprawling handwriting. That chair not so many hours ago had held his unwieldy form. The murdered man's presence seemed to permeate the room. Cyril shuddered involuntarily. The heavy, perfume-laden air stifled him. What was that? He could hear nothing but the tumultuous beating of his own heart. Yet he was sure, warned by some mysterious instinct, that he was not alone. Behind him stood--something. He longed to move, but terror riveted him to the spot. A vision of his cousin's baleful eyes rose before him with horrible vividness. He could feel their vindictive glare scorching him. Was he going mad? Was he a coward? No, he must face the--thing--come what might. Throwing back his head defiantly, he wheeled around--the detective was at his elbow! Cyril gave a gasp of relief and 

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