He entered the house.

All was unearthly quiet.

“I will not disturb any one,” thought the prodigal son, “but creep into the parlour, and sleep on the sofa until morning.”

This he did on tiptoe, for fear of being heard, and was soon fast asleep.

In less than half-an-hour Betty returned, and with her two village constables.

They went upstairs to the farmer’s bed-room, conducted by old Betty.

She knocked at her master’s bed-room door three times.

There was no answer.

No light was burning.

She opened the door, and peeped in.

No one was there.

She next looked into Master Robert’s old bed-room.

Next moment she screamed aloud, and fell staggering to the floor.

“Murdered! murdered!” she cried.

The two officers went in, and turned deadly pale, as they beheld the lifeless body lying ghastly and gory before them.

“Murdered! murdered!” screamed the servant, again and again, in piercing tones.

The dreadful sounds aroused Robert.

He leaped from the sofa, and rushed upstairs.

“Oh, here is Mr. Bolton; kind good gentleman; oh, tell us who did this?” said Betty, weeping.

“It is not Mr. Bolton,” said one of the officers; “it is Bob Bertram.”

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