ime. I stumbled upon what I believed was the solution of the
mystery whilst I was taking a course of chemistry for--well, for the
purpose of demonstrating the possibility of manufacturing precious
stones of a size and weight to make them a profitable--er--speculation.
The science in medicine was not so advanced in those days as it is now,
and when I ventured to suggest to certain doctors what I believed to
have been the cause of the mysterious deaths and the _modus operandi_ of
the murderer, I simply got laughed at for my pains. I felt pretty
certain of my facts, however, and pretty certain of the man who was
guilty. Pardon? No, not alive now; that fellow had his brains blown out
in a bar-room brawl before I left New Zealand."

"New Zealand?" struck in Captain Morford agitatedly. "I say, that's a
rum go, isn't it, Mr. Narkom. New Zealand is where the Comstocks come
from--or, rather, the father and mother did."

"By Jove! Cleek, that looks suspicious, old chap," chimed in Narkom.
"Don't think, do you, that there can possibly be any connection between
the two cases? In other words, that that fellow you suspected in New
Zealand didn't really die after all?"

"Shortly, the chemist? Not a doubt about his death, Mr. Narkom. I was in
the bar-room when he was killed. Three bullets went through his head,
and he was as dead as Napoleon Bonaparte by the time he struck the
floor. The methods may be the same, but not the man--there is not the
ghost of possibility of there being any connection between the two. But
let us give the Captain a chance to explain the case. When, where, and
how did these mysterious murders begin, Captain, if you please?"

"At Lilac Lodge, over Windsor way," replied the Captain, trying to
answer all three questions at once. "They started about a week after the
Comstocks went to live there. And the thing was so appalling, the place
seemed so certainly under a curse, that although he had paid a good
round sum for it, and had spent a pot of money having the house
decorated and the garden laid out just as Miriam and her mother fancied
it--Miriam is Miss Comstock, my fiancee, Mr. Cleek--nothing would induce
Mr. Harmstead to stop in it another hour after the second murder
occurred."

"Mr. Harmstead! Who is Mr. Harmstead, Captain?"

"The late Mrs. Comstock's bachelor uncle--a very rich old chap, who was
once a sheep-farmer in New Zealand, and afterwards in Australia. Mrs.
Comstock hadn't seen him since she wa