“Fancy _my_ feelings!” said Mr. Piper, with a shudder. “Playing with fire, that’s what I call it. My niece is coming this afternoon; it would serve her right if you gave her a fright by telling her you _had_ killed me. Perhaps it would be a lesson to her not to be so officious.” “It would serve ’em both right,” agreed Mr. Cox; “only Mrs. Berry might send for the police.” “I never thought of that,” said Mr. Piper, fondling his chin. “I might frighten my wife,” mused the amiable Mr. Cox; “it would be a lesson to her not to be deceitful again. And, by Jove, I’ll get some money from her to escape with; I know she’s got some, and if she hasn’t she will have in a day or two. There’s a little pub at Newstead, eight miles from here, where we could be as happy as fighting cocks with a fiver or two. And while we’re there enjoying ourselves my wife’ll be half out of her mind trying to account for your disappearance to Mrs. Berry.” “It sounds all right,” said Mr. Piper, cautiously, “but she won’t believe you. You don’t look wild enough to have killed anybody.” “I’ll look wild enough when the time comes,” said the other, nodding. “You get on to the White Horse at Newstead and wait for me. I’ll let you out at the back way. Come along.” “But you said it was eight miles,” said Mr. Piper. “Eight miles easy walking,” rejoined Mr. Cox. “Or there’s a train at three o’clock. There’s a sign-post at the corner there, and if you don’t hurry I shall be able to catch you up. Good-bye.” He patted the hesitating Mr. Piper on the back, and letting him out through the garden, indicated the road. Then he returned to the drawing-room, and carefully rumpling his hair, tore his collar from the stud, overturned a couple of chairs and a small table, and sat down to wait as patiently as he could for the return of his wife. He waited about twenty minutes, and then he heard a key turn in the door below and his wife’s footsteps slowly mounting the stairs. By the time she reached the drawing-room his tableau was complete, and she fell back with a faint shriek at the frenzied figure which met her eyes. “Hush,” said the tragedian, putting his finger to his lips. “Henry, what is it?” cried Mrs. Cox. “What _is_ the matter?” “The broker’s man,” said her husband, in a thrilling whisper. “We had words—he struck me. In a fit of fury I—I—choked him.” “_Much?_” inquired the bewildered woman. “Much?” repeated Mr. Cox, frantically. “I’ve killed him and hidden the body. Now I must escape and fly the country.” The bewilderment on Mrs. Cox’s face increased; she was trying to reconcile her husband’s statement with a vision of a trim little figure which she had seen ten minutes before with its head tilted backwards studying the sign-post, and which she was now quite certain was Mr. Piper. [Illustration: “With its head tilted back, studying the signpost.”] “Are you sure he’s dead?” she inquired.