a thick oaken staff or walking stick ... the
stick lay beside him, covered with blood, where he was found. The stick
was--was your father's, unfortunately: it must have been stolen by some
ruffian for the purpose--and--and----"

He stopped short, as if the story were too hard to tell. Lesley sat
watching his face, which was as pale as her own.

"Go on," she said, quickly. "What else?"

"A pocket-book--with gilt letters on the back: C. B. distinctly marked.
That was also found on the stairs, as if it had dropped from the pocket
of some man as he went down. And it is proved--indeed, your father tells
me so--that he went to that house last night and did not leave it until
nearly midnight."

"But why was he there?"

"He went to see the man and woman who lived in the top room of that
lodging-house. I think you know the woman. She was once your maid----"

"Mary Kingston? She came to our house that very afternoon. She must have
asked my father to go to see her--he spoke kindly of her to me. But why
did Mr. Trent go there too?"

"There have been secrets kept from us which have now come to light,"
said Maurice, sadly. "Oliver went there to see his brother Francis, who
was ill in bed; and his brother's wife was no other than the woman who
acted as your maid, Mary Kingston--or rather Mary Trent. Kingston left
your house on Saturday, it seems, because she had caught sight of her
husband in the street: he had been very ill, and she felt herself
obliged to go home with him and put him to bed. He has been in bed,
unable to rise, she tells me, ever since."

"But she--_she_," said Lesley eagerly, "can explain the whole matter.
She must have heard the fight--the scuffle--whatever it was--upon the
stairs. She ought to be able to tell when father left the house--and
when Mr. Trent left the house. They did not go together, did they?"
there was a touch of scorn in her voice.

"No, they did not go together. But what Mrs. Trent alleges is, that your
father waited for Oliver on the stairs, and attacked him there. It is a
malicious, wicked lie--I am sure of that. But it is what she says she is
willing to swear."

"Mrs. Trent!" Lesley repeated vaguely. "Mrs. Trent! Do you
mean--Kingston? _Kingston_ swears that my father lay in wait for Oliver
Trent upon the stairs? It is impossible!"

"Yes, Kingston," Maurice answered, in a low, level voice. "It is
Kingston who has accused your father of the crime."

Lesley covered her face with he