as innocent. The difficulty in
front of me was to prove the guilt of the real criminal in time. My
friend Tranter, and that remarkable young protegee of Layton, Jenny
West, agreed to help me. Together we began to draw the nets, and the
criminal was aware of our movements. In the country yesterday I
discovered the identity of the most important witness in the case--but
when I went to find her in the evening, she had been snatched away. I
instructed Tranter to discover and bring to me the secret of the Crooked
House, whatever it might be. He set out to do so at nine o'clock last
night. And he has disappeared."

"Disappeared?" the inspector exclaimed.

"Without a trace. I, only, knew where he was going. And not only has he
disappeared--but Copplestone and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe have disappeared with
him."

Inspector Fay began to show more interest.

"They will be wanted for the inquest," he said sharply.

"If we do not find them in time for the inquest," Monsieur Dupont
returned, "there will be two inquests to hold."

"Two inquests?" the inspector echoed.

"I could not understand it," continued Monsieur Dupont. "It was contrary
to all my calculations. I was bewildered--and you may recollect that I
am not often bewildered. But when I returned to my hotel, I found this."
He held out the telegram. "It is the answer to a certain inquiry I have
made."

"What does it mean?" the inspector asked, handing it back.

"It means," said Monsieur Dupont slowly, "that we shall be lucky if we
find Tranter alive."

"Where can they have gone?"

"I do not know. I can only guess--and if I have not guessed rightly, we
shall not see him again."

"Are you telling me," the inspector demanded, "that Copplestone killed
the woman he had just become engaged to?"

"I shall tell you who killed her within twelve hours," Monsieur Dupont
replied. "I will tell you why she was killed now."

He paused.

"Why," he asked, "did the murderer, whoever it was, kill her so
horribly? Why was it not enough to deprive her of life? Could one have
desired more? Why was she stamped on, and torn, and crushed?"

"It was obviously done in the madness of jealousy and revenge," replied
the inspector.

"It was done in madness," said Monsieur Dupont--"but it was not the
madness of jealousy or revenge. It was the madness of a strange and
terrible hatred. It was done--because the killer hated her beauty and
not her."

The inspector stared at him blankly.

"Ha