“This is really our man, I suppose?” whispered the Scotland Yard officer to Mr. Drayton. “Yes, that’s him, sure enough,” answered Drayton, in the same tone. “He was close-shaved when he got out of prison, but his moustache and beard have had time to grow again since then. Yes, that’s him, sure enough. I could swear to him anywhere.” There was nothing more to do or see, and they moved slowly away. “Will you not take one look?” said General St. George to Kester. “Yes, one look,” whispered Kester; and with that he dragged himself close up to the coffin, and stood gazing down for a moment at the marble face below. His own cheeks had faded to the colour of those of the dead man. In the yellow candlelight his features looked cadaverous and shrunken, but his two burning eyes glowed with a strange light, eager yet terrified. He wanted to see—he would not have gone away satisfied unless he had seen—the face which lay there in all its awful beauty; and yet his whole soul sank within him at the sight. Fascinated—spellbound he stood. “Yes, that is Lionel Dering,” he whispered to himself. “Park Newton is mine at last, and eleven thousand a-year. Why did he ever cross my path?” General St. George threw a corner of the pall over the coffin, and the two men turned to go, leaving the candles still burning. The sacristan with his keys was waiting for them at the top of the stone staircase which led to the church above. General St. George went up the stairs first, slowly and painfully: Kester followed a step or two behind. As his foot rested on the lowest stair of the vault he felt once again the Hand laid for a moment heavily on his shoulder—he heard once again the Voice whisper in his ear, “Come.” He shivered involuntarily. Involuntarily he turned half round, as he always did at such times, although he knew quite well that there was nothing to be seen. No: the coffin lay there as they had left it a minute ago, untouched, unmoved. But it was not his voice—not the voice of him who lay sleeping so peacefully there—that haunted the ear of Kester St. George, and filled his life with a dread unspeakable. It was the voice of the man, who had been done to death so foully at Park Newton, that whispered to him thus often out of his untimely shroud. Some hours later, as Richard Dering was crossing the entrance-hall of the villa, a low voice called his name from an upper floor. He looked up and saw Edith’s earnest face shining down upon him. “Are they gone—the two officers of police?” she asked. “They left the villa two hours ago.” “Satisfied?” “Perfectly satisfied.” “Thank Heaven for that!” she said, fervently. “And Kester, what of him?” “He will take his leave immediately after dinner. He has declined Uncle Lionel’s invitation to stay all night.” “You will have to see him again before he goes?” “Yes—just for a minute or two. I shall not dine with him.” “Be careful.” “There is not the slightest cause for fear. But here he comes.”