er plans were, and who were
her friends. I discovered that she had come under the influence of
George Copplestone, who is little better than I was once. The thought
that she was to be the sport of his depravity drove me to frenzy. I
neglected my work. I could do nothing. Then I heard that they were on
the point of becoming engaged. The rest you know. I followed her to
Copplestone's house. She had evidently warned him against me. I forced
my way into the room, calling her by the name of Christine----"

"Why?" the inspector asked

"Because it was obvious that she would not wish the name of Thea
Colville to be known to London. That is all I have to tell you."

The inspector rose.

"Mr. Cranbourne," he said formally, "after hearing your story, I am
afraid I have no option but to detain you on suspicion of having caused
the death of Christine Manderson, otherwise Thea Colville, and to warn
you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

The young man heard him without a tremor.

"I did not kill her," he said firmly. "God's will be done."

CHAPTER XX

THE BIRTH OF THE KILLER

Monsieur Dupont was one of those fortunate individuals who can sleep in
a train.

He left Paddington at one o'clock, and slept for an hour, a sleep of
childlike ease and innocence. When he woke the train was within five
minutes of his destination. He alighted at a small country station, and
instituted inquiries for a conveyance.

Twenty minutes later, an unimpressionable horse, attached to a hybrid
vehicle, was jogging him along country lanes which would have delighted
a man with less serious purposes. But Monsieur Dupont was too much
occupied with the uglinesses of humanity to heed the beauties of nature.
It was not until they arrived at the outskirts of a small village that
he began to look about him with interest.

It was a lovely spot, nestling in primeval innocence under the shelter
of protecting hills. Monsieur Dupont uttered a heavy sigh, and spoke,
for the first time during the drive, to the stout, sunburnt lad who
conducted the equipage.

"My friend," he said sorrowfully, "who could imagine that such a corner
of heaven could have been the cradle of one of the most terrible
tragedies of the world? I feel like a purveyor of sins, creeping into
the preserves of God."

The startled stare that confronted him was not helpful to further
conversation. The disconcerted youth vigorously obtained fresh impetus
fr