“Who found your master?”

The man dropped his cap, and all the blood in his body seemed to climb to his temples.

“Miss Perkins found him,” he said jerkily.

“Where did she find him?” If Martin had lied the fact would come out now.

Martin pointed to the desk. “Where you are sitting, Mr. Derrick. He was leaning forward, his head on one side.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir, but not long.”

“What had happened?”

“Stabbed in the neck.”

“By what?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“And no trace of what killed him has ever been found?”

“Nothing that I ever heard of.” Martin moved a little impatiently, but Derrick’s voice was very even.

“Of course you were at the inquest? These are some of the things you need not answer, unless you’re determined to get that job.”

“Yes, I was there”—this with a defiant glance—“and they examined me, and when it was over not a man had a word to say against me.”

Derrick sharpened his tone. “Your master is just behind you.”

The man started violently and made a harsh noise in his throat. He turned slowly and unwillingly, forcing himself inch by inch, till, following Derrick’s gaze he saw the portrait. At that his color changed, his face becoming overcast with anger.

“By God, but you frightened me,” he said thickly. “I didn’t know what you meant—thought it was a ghost.”

“Is that a good likeness?”

Martin breathed deeply and pulled himself together stretching his 

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