he added, "Groves saw me climb in at the window. He was
with me outside."

She wrung her hands.

"I forgot!" she moaned. "Don't move the sofa while I am looking!"

There was a knock at the door. They both turned round. It was
Groves' voice speaking. He had returned to the house and was waiting
outside.

"Can I come in, madam?"

Fenella moved slowly towards the door and admitted him. Then Arnold,
setting his teeth, rolled back the couch. A man was lying there,
stretched at full length. His face was colorless except for a great
blue bruise near his temple. Arnold stared at him for a moment with
horrified eyes.

"My God!" he muttered.

There was a brief silence. Fenella looked across at Arnold.

"You know him!"

Arnold's first attempt at speech failed. When the words came they
sounded choked. There was a horrible dry feeling in his throat.

"It is the man who looked in at the window that night," he
whispered. "I saw him--only a few hours ago. It is the same man."

Fenella came slowly to his side. She leaned over his shoulder.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

Her tone was cold and unnatural. Her paroxysm of fear seemed to have
passed.

"I don't know," Arnold answered. "Let Groves telephone for a
doctor."

The man half turned away, yet hesitated. Fenella fell on her knees
and bent over the prostrate body.

"He is not dead," she declared. "Groves, tell me exactly who is in
the house?"

"There is no one here at all, madam," the man answered, "except the
servants, and they are all in the other wing. We have had no
callers whatever this evening."

"And Mr. Weatherley?"

"Mr. Weatherley arrived home about seven o'clock," Groves replied,
"dined early, and went to bed immediately afterwards. He complained
of a headache and looked very unwell."

Fenella rose slowly to her feet. She looked from Arnold to the
prostrate figure upon the carpet.

"Who has done this?" she asked, pointing downwards.

"It may have been an accident," Arnold suggested.

"An accident!" she repeated. "What was he doing in my sitting-room?
Besides, he could not have crept underneath the couch of his own
accord."

"Do you know who it is?" Arnold asked.

"Why should I know?" she demanded.

He hesitated.

"You remember the night of my first visit here--the face at the
window?"

She nodded. He pointed downward to the outstretched hand.

"That is the man," he declared. "He is wearing the same ring--the
red signet ring. I saw it u