"Stabbed," he said, briefly, as he examined the body, "and with one of his own etching needles! Who did it?" "With what?" exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking puzzled. "With an etching point--or needle. An artist's tool. Who did it?" There was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. Who could answer this question, even by a surmise. Blake threw himself into the breach. "We don't know, sir," he said. "It was doubtless done in the dark, and, when I turned up on the lights--the--the murderer had fled." A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and Natalie's lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had marked it at first. "Where's Barry?" went on Dr. Keith. "I am here," said young Stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace. "Dr. Keith, I want this matter hushed up. I am master here now, and horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into this thing." Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. "You don't know what you're talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed your father?" "No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never be found." "Why not? Why do you say that?" "I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one who brought about my father's death. Joyce, you agree with me, don't you?" The young fellow had never addressed his father's wife more formally than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years between their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked almost as young as her stepson. There had always been good comradeship between the two, and during the two years Joyce had been Stannard's wife she and Barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of any sort. About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a professional model, had come to pose for Stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a time. Joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her heart, and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy and kindness. The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like Dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming gold of her wonderful hair were Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an added piquancy and charm. It is not to be wondered at that Barry promptly fell in love with her, nor is it remarkable that Eric himself was more or less under the spell of his beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stannard could not help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of Nature's.