ony on his face
passed unnoticed. As the theatrical manager and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe
arrived at a run, Copplestone, with a sound like the cry of a raging
animal, grasped the unhappy clergyman by the arm, and dashed off towards
the river.

The others followed. They found her lying a few yards from the water's
edge. The manager struck a match, and they looked down.

The danseuse shrieked, and fainted. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sank on her knees,
sobbing, and covered her face with her hands. The financier sickened,
and turned away, trembling violently.

"God!" Tranter cried--"some one must have stamped on her!"

He bent down. "Thea...." he whispered.

Something like a sob shook him. But the others did not see.

"It must have been a wild beast," shuddered the clergyman.

"It is the work of a madman," said the manager hoarsely. "He has utterly
destroyed her--as he threatened."

George Copplestone stood without a tremor. As he looked down at the
broken form all his frenzy disappeared. The distortion of his first fury
faded from his face, leaving it set in a pallid, lifeless mask. He
contemplated the dreadful destruction at his feet without a sign of
horror, or even of pity. He was perfectly steady. Not a quiver escaped
him. Stooping down, he asked quietly for assistance to carry the body to
the house.

"Wait a bit," said the manager, looking at him curiously. "She ought not
to be moved before the police come."

Copplestone straightened himself, and remained silent.

"Let Gluckstein take the women in, and telephone to the Police Station,"
the manager suggested.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe raised her bloodless face.

"Yes, yes," she sobbed. "Let me go. It's too horrible. I can't bear it."

Tranter raised her up. The danseuse had recovered consciousness, and was
crying hysterically. Suddenly the financier startled them in a thin high
voice, pointing a shaking finger into the darkness.

"Someone ith moving! Out there behind uth! Whoth there? Whoth there?"

They swung round, straining their eyes into the blackness.

"Who's there?" the manager called.

An answering voice reached them. The manager struck another match. On
the edge of the darkness they saw an enormous figure.

"It's Monsieur Dupont!" Tranter cried.

"My friends," exclaimed Monsieur Dupont, "at last I find you! What is
the matter?"

Copplestone looked at him steadily.

"The matter," he said evenly, "is that Miss Manderson has been
murdered."

Monsieur Dupont