“‘Ever since your brother was reported as having died in Africa,’ he said, ‘your Lordship has been collecting money on post obits. Lord Chetney’s arrival last night turned them into waste paper. You were suddenly in debt for thousands of pounds--for much more than you could ever possibly pay. No one knew that you and your brother had met at Madame Zichy’s. But you knew that your father was not expected to outlive the night, and that if your brother were dead also, you would be saved from complete ruin, and that you would become the Marquis of Edam.’ “‘Oh, that is how you have worked it out, is it?’ Arthur cried. ‘And for me to become Lord Edam was it necessary that the woman should die, too!’ “‘They will say,’ Lyle answered, ‘that she was a witness to the murder--that she would have told.’ “‘Then why did I not kill the servant as well!’ Arthur said. “‘He was asleep, and saw nothing.’ “‘And you believe _that?_’ Arthur demanded. “‘It is not a question of what I believe,’ Lyle said gravely. ‘It is a question for your peers.’ “‘The man is insolent!’ Arthur cried. ‘The thing is monstrous! Horrible!’ “Before we could stop him he sprang out of his cot and began pulling on his clothes. When the nurses tried to hold him down, he fought with them. “‘Do you think you can keep me here,’ he shouted, ‘when they are plotting to hang me? I am going with you to that house!’ he cried at Lyle. ‘When you find those bodies I shall be beside you. It is my right. He is my brother. He has been murdered, and I can tell you who murdered him. That woman murdered him. She first ruined his life, and now she has killed him. For the last five years she has been plotting to make herself his wife, and last night, when he told her he had discovered the truth about the Russian, and that she would never see him again, she flew into a passion and stabbed him, and then, in terror of the gallows, killed herself. She murdered him, I tell you, and I promise you that we will find the knife she used near her--perhaps still in her hand. What will you say to that?’ “Lyle turned his head away and stared down at the floor. ‘I might say,’ he answered, ‘that you placed it there.’ “Arthur gave a cry of anger and sprang at him, and then pitched forward into his arms. The blood was running from the cut under the bandage, and he had fainted. Lyle carried him back to the bed again, and we left him with the police and the doctors, and drove at once to the address he had given us. We found the house not three minutes’ walk from St. George’s Hospital. It stands in Trevor Terrace, that little row of houses set back from Knightsbridge, with one end in Hill Street.