“That’s it, sir,” exclaimed the detective; “Mr. Faradeane is a gentleman, as you say, and I’ve never in all my experience known a real, genuine gentleman commit a crime of this kind. In the heat of the moment--in a sudden fit of jealousy, for instance--a gentleman might do it. But this was premeditated.” “How do you know that?” said Bartley Bradstone, sharply. The detective looked at him calmly and thoughtfully. “Because the man who shot this woman went to meet her fully intending to shoot her,” he said, quietly. “What I want to get at is this gentleman’s, Mr. Faradeane’s, motive for getting rid of the woman. That’s what I want to find out.” “Do you know the woman? Have you identified her?” It was Bartley Bradstone who asked the question, and he did so with affected indifference, as if he were merely asking from curiosity. The detective shook his head. “Not had time yet, sir; but I shall know all about her directly.” At this tone of confidence Bartley Bradstone shifted in his seat. “What does Mr. Faradeane say?” he asked. “Surely he has explained his presence on the spot, and the revolver?” said the squire. Mr. McAndrew shook his head. “That’s the queer part of it, sir,” he said. “I’ve seen Mr. Faradeane before and after the inquest, and he declines to say a word. Now, if he had been the man he’d have been full of explanations; do you follow me, sir?” “Perfectly,” responded the squire, with a sigh. “They always are. They can account for everything; but Mr. Faradeane doesn’t seem to take the trouble to explain. That strikes me as being peculiar.” “Perhaps he can’t explain,” said Bartley Bradstone, his eyes fixed on the carpet. The detective looked from him to the squire, and then out of the window, abstractedly. “If he can’t, then----” He stopped. “Well?” demanded the squire. “Then he’s a lost man,” replied the detective. CHAPTER XXVII. A LOST MAN. Not within the memory of the oldest inhabitant had there been so much excitement in the county. That a murder should have been committed within a quarter of a mile of the Grange, on Olivia Vanley’s wedding day, was bad enough; but that the suspected man should be the mysterious Mr. Faradeane of The Dell, raised popular curiosity and interest to fever heat. Then came the news that the bride had been stricken down with fever, and was lying dangerously ill at her father’s house. Scarcely any other topic was discussed, and persons eagerly asked one another whether any new phase of what was already called “the Hawkwood tragedy” had appeared. The only man who seemed to have retained his calmness in the midst of the excitement was the prisoner himself. While everybody else was eagerly debating the probability of his guilt or innocence, and endeavoring to ascribe the motive for his crime, if indeed he committed it, Harold Faradeane uttered no word which could tend toward a solution of the mystery.