Bullen, not slow to notice this, continued to ply her with questions in order to obtain further details of how the hours after dinner had been spent. "Who saw your husband last?" he inquired. "I don't know for certain. I believe it was one of the guests--a Mr Durrant, with whom he had played billiards." "After he had complained to you of not feeling well?" "No; he played billiards before," she answered. Then readily added, "On leaving me he returned to the billiard-room to fetch his cigar-case. It was then he wished Mr Durrant good-night." "Did he tell him, also, that he was unwell?" "Yes, I believe so. But Mr Durrant sent a card of sympathy to my room and left without seeing me. I therefore only know this by hearsay from the servants." "You have a stepson--Lieutenant Chetwode. Where was he?" "With me in the drawing-room. Ah! here he comes." And at that moment a thin, dark-haired, well-set-up young man entered, eyeing us with an inquiring glance. This, then, was my wife's lover. Briefly the widow explained who we were, and, in reply to Bullen's questions, the dead man's son described how his father had managed to slip out unobserved, and how his absence had passed unnoticed until the awful discovery had been made in the morning. "You have no suspicion that he had any enemy, I suppose?" the detective asked. "None whatever. The terrible affair is a most profound mystery." "Yes," said Bullen reflectively, his grey eyes fixed upon those of the widow; "it's a mystery we must try to solve." "I hope you will," the young man exclaimed. "My father has fallen beneath the hands of some cowardly assassin concealed in those bushes down by the lake--he was the victim of the revenge of some person unknown." "What makes you think the motive was revenge?" inquired the detective, quick to scent any clue. The widow and her stepson exchanged rapid glances. I was watching, and it occurred to me that some secret understanding existed between them. My friend of the _Red Lion_ had declared that they were enemies, but to me it certainly appeared as though they were acting in complete accord. "Oh," responded Cyril Chetwode, rather lamely, "I merely suppose that." "Revenge for what?" "Ah! if we only knew the reason it would not be difficult to find the murderer," answered the man who loved my wife. "It may be that some person sought revenge for an imaginary grievance." "But why was the Colonel walking at that lonely spot at that hour? He must have had an object. It looks suspiciously as though he went to keep a secret appointment. The excuse that he was ill seems to have been made with a view to securing his room from intruders who might disturb him." "He may have kept an appointment," his son replied. "But only he himself could tell us the truth."