“The ole man ain’t been over well, so Mr. Thorpe stayed on his account.” “And Mabel?” “Mr. Thorpe sent her word this morning, and she came right up. Fust time she’d been in the house since the ole man kicked her out. I reckon there’s the coroner driving in, sir. I heerd ’em say they’d sent for him.” The ride from the station had been of brief duration, and they now came in view of a large country house, situated somewhat off the road. A glance at the place indicated the character of its late owner. The dwelling, once a mansion, was now out of repair; and the surrounding acres of woodland and meadows had run rank as they pleased. A large stable was at the rear and at one side of the house, and the faded old gray mare, behind which Jacob Moore had been wont to ride, ambled up the driveway between the elms as if eager to reach her stall. But grim Mr. Darbage drew her down at the side door of the house, which was immediately opened by a young woman in dark attire, whose pale, pretty face and red eyes at once suggested to Keene her identity. “Oh, Mr. French!” she exclaimed, approaching with much emotion to greet him; “I am so glad you have come! My poor father has met with----” But the kind old lawyer took her in his arms, and silenced her with a more loving kiss than the father mentioned had ever given her in all her worthy and gentle girlhood. He led her in, and took her alone to the library; while Sheridan Keene, already at work on the case in his quiet way, followed them as far as the broad hall. Though things wore the aspect of years of service, the large house was comfortably furnished, and the general cleanliness and order suggested the care of a capable housekeeper. The sound of voices from a room off one side of the hall now reached the detective’s ears, and in an affair of this kind Sheridan Keene did not stand upon ceremony. He at once approached the room, the door of which stood partly open. It was a large, square bedroom, with two windows. A broad fireplace was at one end, but the half-burned logs were cold and dead, and the air was very chilly. A bed occupied the opposite end of the room, and there, upon its bloodstained linen, stiff and cold in death, lay the figure of a thin-faced, gray-haired old man, whose face in death, even, still carried an expression of that severity and hardness which had marked all the latter years of his life. Three men were standing near the bed, and one, evidently a physician, was examining the body. “The man has been dead many hours, not less than twelve, I should say,” he observed, as Sheridan Keene stepped softly into the room. “It is a shocking crime!” “Can anything be done?” asked a tall, broad-shouldered young man at his elbow. The physician shook his head. “Not for him,” he replied. “You had better do nothing here, Mr. Thorpe, until after the arrival of the coroner.”