aid in his own
heart. Juliet was as staunch as steel, and he was certain that Mr.
Octagon would be on his side. Basil probably would agree with his
mother, whose lead he slavishly followed. But Mallow had rather a
contempt for Basil, and did not count his opposition as dangerous.

On leaving the "Shrine of the Muses," the young man's first intention
was to seek out Jennings and see what progress he was making in the
matter. But on reflection he thought he would call again on his uncle
and question him regarding his knowledge of Mrs. Octagon. It seemed to
Cuthbert that, from the woman's question as to whether Lord Caranby had
returned from abroad, and her remark on hearing that he had, some
suspicion was in her mind as to his being concerned in the crime. Yet,
beyond the fact that the unfinished house stood behind the cottage
where the crime had been committed and belonged to Lord Caranby who had
known the dead woman in the past, Cuthbert could not see how Mrs.
Octagon could constitute a latter-day connection between her dead
sister and her old friend. But Lord Caranby might be induced to
talk--no easy matter--and from what he said, the mystery of Mr.
Octagon's attitude might be elucidated. Only in the past--so far as
the perplexed young man could conjecture--could be found the reason for
her sudden change of front.

Cuthbert therefore sent a wire to his uncle, stating that he wished to
see him after eight o'clock on special business, and then went home to
dress.

While thus employed, he thought over means and ways to make Caranby
open his mouth. The old lord was a silent, grave man, who never
uttered an unnecessary word, and it was difficult to induce him to be
confidential. But invariably he had approved of his nephew's
engagement, although he had never seen Juliet, so it might be that he
would speak out--if there was anything to say--in order to remove any
impediment to the match. It depended upon what information he received
as to how Mallow would act.

At half-past eight he drove to the Avon Hotel and was shown up at once
to his uncle's sitting-room. That he should live in an hotel was
another of Caranby's eccentricities. He had a house in town and three
in the country, yet for years he had lived--as the saying is--on his
portmanteau. Even the villa at Nice he owned was unoccupied by this
strange nobleman, and was usually let to rich Americans. When in
England he stopped at the Avon Hotel and when