Stenness closed the safe and put the key back into his pocket. “Yes, Mr. Shandon told me to keep this one. I’ve been arranging the papers for him and it was more convenient that I should have the key. It saved him the bother of always handing it over when I needed it.” “You hadn’t a key in Roger Shandon’s time?” “No, Roger was rather a different sort of person.” “By the way, Mr. Stenness, are you staying on here as secretary to Ernest Shandon?” Stenness seemed slightly taken aback by the question. “There’s no definite arrangement, so far. I’m staying until the estate affairs have been cleared up; but after that I doubt if I shall remain here. I can do better than this.” “I suppose you could,” Sir Clinton agreed indifferently. He looked at his watch. “I want to see Dr. Ardsley now. I’m rather in a hurry at present; but there are one or two more questions I want to put to you sometime, Mr. Stenness. Will you be free after dinner to-night? Very well, I’ll come across then. Now, if you could let Dr. Ardsley know I’m here.” Stenness was evidently a prompt messenger, for Ardsley appeared almost at once. Wendover scanned his face eagerly as he came into the room. Here was the person who might be able to set their minds at ease. But Ardsley’s countenance gave him no cause for raising his spirits. It betrayed nothing but gloom and anxiety. “She’s much worse. I’d hoped for a rally after that attack in the night, but she hasn’t pulled herself together.” “Tell us plainly what you think,” demanded Sir Clinton. “You needn’t beat about the bush where we’re concerned.” Ardsley’s face seemed to grow, if anything, graver than before. “I can hold out no great hope. Frankly, I think it will be all up soon—to-night, perhaps.” No one seemed inclined to speak. Wendover was trying to force himself to face what now seemed inevitable. Death often came swiftly; but the circumstances of Sylvia’s tragedy gave it a quality which ordinary deaths do not possess. He could hardly assure himself that the whole thing was not a nightmare. There seemed to be something so aimless in the whole business, the killing of a young girl against whom no one could conceivably harbour any personal grudge. The inhuman purposelessness which had cut Sylvia down on the threshold of her life seemed more terrible to him than any planned scheme would have done; for a calculated crime would imply a motive, whereas this deed seemed to have arisen out of mere chaos—something outside normal things. Sir Clinton took a step towards the door and then seemed to change his mind. “Do you think you could get some vinegar and some washing soda?” he asked, turning to Ardsley. “There’s something I’d like to be sure about; and it might be as well that an expert should see it.” Ardsley had no difficulty in procuring what was wanted. As the doctor in charge of Sylvia, he had only to ask for anything. A couple of tumblers and a water-carafe were brought as well, at Sir Clinton’s request.