of tact and artifice, a certain instinct which tells us our companions are reading our thoughts and gauging our dilemmas.

“I wonder what the next development of the Vaux[51] House mystery will be,” Miss Riverdale observed, quoting the headline of the Daily Comet.

[51]

The affair had, as was natural, been the subject of animated discussion at luncheon, and it seemed scarcely worth while to reopen it.

The Countess gave a shrug. “We must wait and see,” she answered mechanically. “The poor Duchess! One almost feels one ought to leave cards of enquiry.”

“The poor Duke,” laughed her friend. “They will get more fun out of him than ever. Not but what this is a serious matter.”

“You really think so?” The talk was being sustained by an effort on both sides, and Alexia’s question sounded suspiciously like covering a yawn.

“Don’t you?” the other returned, in languid surprise.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. If it is all true.”

“Of course if it isn’t true we shall have a disclaimer from the Lancashires to-morrow.”

“I mean the connection between the broken ornament, the little sword, or whatever it is, and poor Captain Martindale’s death. You knew him, Mary?”

“Only by sight. You did, dear, didn’t you?”

“Casually. Meeting him about. As a matter of fact I was to have danced with him at the very time he was found dead.”

“Alix! You never told me that. How awful!”

“It might have been,” the Countess responded composedly. “But I did not see him. It was late; a good many people had gone. He did not come for his dance; then there was a fuss: we were told, at least I was, that Captain Martindale had had a fit, and people went off.[52] I fancy most of the men knew the real state of the case.”

[52]

Miss Riverdale gave a little shudder. “Horrible! At a dance, too.”

“Yes. It was upsetting, even to us who did not know the truth. As we were going, a doctor bustled in, shivering in a great-coat buttoned up to hide the 

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