d, I knew too well, be impossible. Those men, in journalistic
parlance called "liners," are everywhere, hungry for copy, and always
eager to seize upon anything tragic or mysterious.

From Short I gathered a few additional details. Not many, be it said,
but sufficient to make it quite clear that he was intensely
antagonistic towards his mistress. This struck me as curious, for as
far as I had seen she had always treated him with the greatest
kindness and consideration, had given him holidays, and to my
knowledge had, a few months before, raised his wages of her own
accord. Nevertheless, the _menage_ was a strange one, incongruous in
every respect.

My chief thoughts were, however, with my love. The shock to her must,
I knew, be terrible, especially as Mary was absent and she was alone
with the nurse and servants.

When I sprang from the cab and entered the house she met me in the
hall. She had dressed hastily and wore a light shawl over her head,
probably to conceal her disordered hair, but her face was blanched to
the lips.

"Oh, Ralph!" she cried in a trembling voice. "I thought you were never
coming. It's terrible--terrible!"

"Come in here," I said, leading her into the dining room. "Tell me all
you know of the affair."

"Short discovered him just after two o'clock. He was then quite
still."

"But there may be life," I exclaimed suddenly, and leaving her I
rushed up the stairs and into the room where the old man had chatted
to me so merrily not many hours before.

The instant my gaze fell upon him I knew the truth. Cadaveric rigidity
had supervened, and he had long been beyond hope of human aid. His
furrowed face was as white as ivory, and his lower jaw had dropped in
that manner that unmistakably betrays the presence of death.

As the man had described, the sheet was stained with blood. But there
was not much, and I was some moments before I discovered the wound. It
was just beneath the heart, cleanly cut, and about three-quarters of
an inch long, evidently inflicted by some sharp instrument. He had no
doubt been struck in his sleep, and with such precision that he had
died without being able to raise the alarm.

The murderer, whoever he was, had carried the weapon away.

I turned and saw Ethelwynn, a pale wan figure in her light gown and
shawl, standing on the threshold, watching me intently. She stood
there white and trembling, as though fearing to enter the presence of
the dead.

I made a hasty