pon his hand the night you and I were in
this room alone together, and he was watching the house. I saw it
again through the window of the swing-doors on the hand of the man
who killed Rosario. What does it mean, Fenella?"

"I do not know," she faltered.

"You must have some idea," he persisted, "as to who he is. You
seemed to expect his coming that night. You would not let me give
an alarm or send for the police. It was the same man who killed
Rosario."

She shook her head.

"I do not believe that," she declared.

"If it were not the same man," Arnold continued, "it was at least
some one who was wearing the same ring. Tell me the truth, Fenella!"

She turned her head. Groves had come once more within hearing.

"I know nothing," she replied, hardly. "Groves, go and knock at the
door of your master's room," she added. "Ask him to put on his
dressing-gown and come down at once. Mr. Chetwode, come with me into
the library while I telephone for the doctor."

Arnold hesitated for a moment.

"Don't you think that I had better stay by him?" he suggested.

She shook her head.

"I will not be left alone," she replied. "I told you on the way here
that I was afraid. All the evening I knew that something would
happen."

They made their way to the front of the house and into the library.
She turned up the electric lights and fetched a telephone book.
Arnold rang up the number she showed him.

"What about the police station?" he asked, turning towards her with
the receiver still in his hand. "Oughtn't I to send for some one?"

"Not yet," she replied. "We are not supposed to know. The man may
have come upon some business. Let us wait and see what the doctor
says."

He laid down the receiver. She had thrown herself into an
easy-chair and with a little impulsive gesture she held out one hand
towards him.

"Poor Arnold!" she murmured. "I am afraid that this is all very
bewildering to you, and your life was so peaceful until a week ago."

He held her fingers tightly. Notwithstanding the shadows under her
eyes, and the gleam of terror which still lingered there, she was
beautiful.

"I don't care about that," he answered, fervently. "I don't care
about anything except that I should like to understand a little more
clearly what it all means. I hate mysteries. I don't see why you
can't tell me. I am your friend. If it is necessary for me to say
nothing, I shall say nothing, but I hate the thoughts that come to
me som