f autumn
flowers bloomed on a table near the bedside, and a capable looking nurse
was preparing a draught by the window. She glanced at the three men as
they entered, but went on with her occupation.

The sick man lay on his back, breathing heavily. His black hair framed a
face which was ghastly in its whiteness, and his upturned eyes, barely
visible beneath the half-closed lids, seemed fixed and motionless.

"Any change, nurse?" the doctor asked.

"No change, sir."

But even as she spoke Phil's face changed in a manner which was
wonderful in its suddenness. His features became contorted, as though a
sword had been thrust through his vitals, and he struggled upright in
his bed, with one shaking hand outstretched. His eyes, glaring with
delirium, roved restlessly over the faces of the men at the foot of the
bed.

"She's dead, I tell you! Violet's dead.... Have they found him? Ah,
who's that?"

Once again he uttered his young wife's name, and fell back on the
pillow, motionless as before, but with one arm athwart his face, as
though to cover his eyes.

"I shall be glad if you will leave the room," said the little doctor
gravely. "Your presence excites him." He hurried round to the bedside
and bent over his patient.

CHAPTER IX

"Have you formed any theory of the murder yet?"

It was the evening of the same day, and Superintendent Merrington and
Captain Stanhill were once more in the moat-house library. It was
Captain Stanhill who asked the question, as he stood warming his little
legs in front of a crackling fire of oak logs which had just been
lighted in the gloomy depths of the big fireplace. Although it was early
in autumn, the evening air was chill.

Superintendent Merrington was walking up and down the room with rapid
strides, occasionally glancing with some impatience at the clock which
ticked with cheerful indifference on the mantelpiece. He was about to
return to London, but was waiting for the return of Detective Caldew and
Sergeant Lumbe. Caldew had cycled to Chidelham to see the Weynes, and
Lumbe had been sent to investigate a telephoned report of a suspicious
stranger seen at a hamlet called Tibblestone, some miles away.

Merrington's face wore a gloomy and dissatisfied expression. He had
spent the afternoon in a whirlwind of energy in which he had done many
things. He had explored the moat-house from top to bottom, squeezing his
vast bulk into every obscure corner of the rambling old p