ght not have come for years, the fool, if he had only
obeyed," said Cleek; then lapsed into silence and stood staring at a
dust of white flour on the red-tiled floor and at a thin wavering line
that broke the even surface of it.

III

It was perhaps two minutes later when the entire household, mistress,
guests, and servants alike, came trooping across the open space between
the hall and the stables in a state of semi-deshabille, but in that
brief space of time friendly hands had reverently lifted the body of the
dead man from its place before the steel door, and Sir Henry was
nervously fitting the key to the lock in a frantic effort to get in and
see if Black Riot was safe.

"_Dios!_ what is it? What has happened?" cried Lady Wilding, as she came
hurrying in, followed closely by Sharpless and the Rev. Ambrose Smeer.
Then, catching sight of Logan's body, she gave a little scream and
covered her eyes. "The trainer, Andrew, the trainer now!" she went on
half hysterically. "Another death--another! Surely they have got the
wretch at last?"

"The mare! The mare, Henry! Is she safe?" exclaimed Sharpless excitedly,
as he whirled away from his cousin's side and bore down upon the
baronet. "Give me the key, you're too nervous." And, taking it from him,
unlocked the steel room and passed swiftly into it.

In another instant Black Riot was led out, uninjured, untouched, in the
very pink of condition and, in spite of the tragedy and the dead man's
presence, one or two of the guards were so carried away that they
essayed a cheer.

"Stop that! Stop it instantly!" rapped out Sir Henry, facing round upon
them. "What's a horse, even the best, beside the loss of an honest life
like that?" and flung out a shaking hand in the direction of dead Logan.
"It will be the story of last night over again, of course? You heard his
scream, heard his fall, but he was dead when you got to him--dead--and
you found no one here?"

"Not a soul, Sir Henry. The doors were all locked; no grille is missing
from any window; no one is in the loft; no one in any of the stalls; no
one in any crook or corner of the place."

"Send for the constable, the justice of the peace, anybody!" chimed in
the Rev. Ambrose Smeer at this. "Henry, will you never be warned; never
take these awful lessons to heart? This sinful practice of racing horses
for money----"

"Oh, hush, hush! Don't preach me a sermon now, uncle," interposed Sir
Henry. "My heart's torn, my min