A reckless, brutal, drunken collier murders his wife, and though his neighbors shake their heads and say it is a terrible thing, the idea of a murder is unhappily too familiar to them to excite the disgust, the repugnance and horror felt among a more cultivated and refined class. But the murder of Lady Alden created a profound impression through the whole kingdom; the papers were filled with it; any little detail that could throw additional light on the subject was most eagerly grasped. Several popular daily papers sent their special reporters down to Leeholme. The circulation of the _Daily Wonder_ increased marvelously, because each morning there was something fresh to say on the subject of “The Terrible Tragedy in High Life,” and yet, write, guess, imagine what they would, there was no glimmer of truth in anything written or said. Round Leeholme the sensation had been almost terrible. Dr. Mayne, left to take the entire management of the business, had promptly sent for the superintendent of police, Captain Johnstone, and had given him _carte blanche_. “Spare no money, no time, no labor,” he said, “but let the criminal be found. Sir Ronald is too ill, too overwhelmed, to give any orders at present; but you know what should be done. Do it promptly.” And Captain Johnstone had at once taken every necessary step. There was something ghastly in the pretty town of Leeholme, for there on the walls was the placard, worded: “MURDER! “Two hundred pounds will be given to any one bringing certain information as to a murder committed on Tuesday morning, June 19th, in the Holme Woods. Apply to Captain Johnstone, Police Station, Leeholme.” Gaping rustics read it, and while they felt heartily sorry for the unhappy lady they longed to know something about it for the sake of the reward. But no one called on Captain Johnstone--no one had a word either of certainty or surmise. The police officers, headed by intelligent men, made diligent search in the neighborhood of the pool; but nothing was found. There was no mark of any struggle; the soft, thick grass gave no sign of heavy footsteps. No weapon could be found, no trace of blood-stained fingers. It was all a mystery dark as night, without one gleam of light. The pool had always been a favorite place with the hapless lady; and, knowing that, Sir Ronald had ordered a pretty, quaint golden chair to be placed there for her; and on the very morning when the event happened Lady Clarice Alden had taken her book and had gone to the fatal spot to enjoy the beauty of the morning, the brightness of the sun and the odor of the flowers. The book she had been reading lay on the ground, where it had evidently fallen from her hands. But there was no sign of anything wrong; the bluebells had not even been trampled under foot.