When we entered the dining-room, a fine apartment with the table laid with shining plate, decorated with flowers, and illuminated with red-shaded candles, we were greeted, as we expected, by a loud and rather boisterous welcome by Dick and Mary. We were, of course, full of apologies, being nearly half an hour late. But up-river dinner is a somewhat movable feast, so Mrs. Blain quickly forgave us, and while I sat by Mary on her one hand, Dick seated himself at Eva's side. Gaily we gossiped through a merry meal, washed down with a real Berncastel, and followed by old port, coffee, and curacoa. Yet my mind was full of strange apprehensions. What possible connexion could these three women have with that crime which the police were withholding from the public? That they were all three aware that a tragedy had taken place seemed quite clear. Yet all remained silent. I had detected in Mrs. Blain's manner an anxiety and nervousness which I had never before noticed, yet I refrained from putting any further question to her, lest I might, by doing so, show my hand. She could not keep from her tone when she spoke to me a note of insincerity, which my ear did not fail to detect. Our conversation over dessert turned upon dogs, the performances of Mary's pug having started the discussion, and quite inadvertently Dick, whose mind seemed always centred upon his work, for he was nothing if not an enthusiast, suddenly said-- "Dogs are now being used by the police to trace criminals. There is no better method when it can be accomplished, for a bloodhound will follow a trail anywhere with unfailing accuracy, even after some hours." "Do they actually use them now?" asked Mrs. Blain in a strained, faltering voice, her wine-glass poised in her hand. "Yes," he responded. "They've been utilised with entire success in two or three cases this week, not only in London, but in the provinces also. They are unfailing, and will track the guilty one with an accuracy that's absolutely astounding." Eva and Mary exchanged quick glances across the table, while Mrs. Blain sipped her wine and stirred uneasily in her chair. I noticed that the colour had died out from the faces of all three, and that in their blanched countenances was a look of mingled fear and suspicion. My friend had led that conversation with remarkable tact to quite an unlooked-for result. He lifted his eyes to mine for an instant and read my thoughts. My mind became filled with a presentiment of future ill. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE DEFORMED MAN'S STATEMENT. Youth is as short as joy, and happiness vanishes like all else. In the mad hurry of life, however, we heed not such things. We live only for to-day. On our way back to Waterloo that night Dick earnestly discussed the situation. "And what's your opinion now?" I inquired, as he sat opposite me in the corner of the railway carriage.