"Mr. Narkom will tell you, Sir Charles, that from our time of starting this morning to our arrival here we made but one stop. That stop was at the Portsmouth mortuary before we appeared at this house. I wished to see the body of the man who was drowned. I have no hesitation, Sir Charles, in declaring that that man's name is not, and never was, Axel von Ziegelmundt. The body is that of Nicolo Ferrand, 'La Tarantula's' clever lover. The inference is obvious. 'Miss Greta Hilmann's' anguish and despair were real enough, believe me (that is why it deceived everybody so completely). It is not, however, over the frightful position of young Beachman that she sorrowed, but over the death of Ferrand. Had he lived, I believe she has daring enough to have remained here and played her part to the end, but she either lost her nerve and her mental balance--which, by the way, is not in the least like her under any circumstances whatsoever--or some other disaster of which we know nothing overtook her and interfered with her carrying on the work in conjunction with her brother." "Her brother?" "Yes. He would be sure to be about. They all three worked in concert. Gad! if I'd only been here before the vixen slipped the leash--if I only had! Let us have the elder Mr. Beachman in, if you please, Sir Charles; there's a word or so I want to have with him. You've had him summoned, of course!" "Yes, he and the telegraph operator as well; I thought you might wish to question both," replied he. "Grimsdick, go--or, no! I'll go myself. Beachman ought to know of this appalling thing; and it is best that it should be broken by a friend." Speaking, he left the room, coming back a few minutes later in company with the telegraph operator and the now almost hysterical dock master. He waited not one second for introduction or permission or anything else, that excited father, but rushed at Cleek and caught him by the hand. "It's my boy and you're clearing him--God bless you!" he exclaimed, catching Cleek's hand and wringing it with all his strength. "It isn't in him to sell his country; I'd have killed him with my own hand years ago, if I thought it was. But it wasn't--it never was! My boy! my boy! my splendid, loyal boy!"