I had expected to find him resting after the great strain which the multitude and importance of his guests must have imposed upon him during the day. But I found him very differently employed. He was bending low over his writing-table, with a cup of tea by his side, and already several sheets of closely-written foolscap were scattered about the table. At the sound of my entrance he looked up at once and laid down his pen. "Sit there," he said, pointing to an easy-chair opposite to him. "I want to see your face while you are talking. Now, what is this tale which you have to tell me?" His manner was far from encouraging and his face wore a severe expression. Altogether I felt a little nervous. But it had to be done, so I began. First I told him all about Leonard de Cartienne, his bad influence over Cecil, and his correspondence with Mr. Marx. He listened without remark. Then I paused to take breath. "I don't know what you'll say about the rest of my story," I went on. "I scarcely know what to think of it myself. But here it is. There is an inn in Little Drayton kept by a man named Hart, and Cecil and de Cartienne go there--sometimes. About a month before I went to Borden Tower the man Hart disappeared. He left home on a journey, the nature of which he kept secret even from his daughter, and has never returned or been heard of. All the information which his daughter can give is that he has left home before on a similar errand and invariably returned with money after three or four days." I paused and glanced at Mr. Ravenor. He was looking a little puzzled, but not particularly interested. "About a month before I left here for Borden Tower," I went on, "I met Mr. Marx in Torchester and drove home with him late at night. On the moor we were furiously attacked by a man who seemed to be mad and Mr. Marx was slightly injured. Two days afterwards Mr. Marx was assaulted by the same man in the park, and if I had not turned up he would probably have been killed. The man was a lunatic in every respect, save one. He recognized Mr. Marx as his enemy and made deliberate attempts upon his life." Mr. Ravenor softly pulled down the green lampshade on the side nearest to him, and in the subdued light I could scarcely see his face, but I felt that his interest in my story was growing.