Dick, observing him closely, strove to arrive at some conclusion, apart from the evidence in his possession, with respect to his complicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of the news could have produced no other effect than was shown in the white face, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another interval of silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell me everything." "You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger." "No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell me everything--now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears? Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It was the spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears. "Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speaking about it in the streets?" "There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When Uncle Rob and I went into the house we found everything as the papers describe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course we can't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of a struggle." "The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fear in his eyes. "There are signs of them," said Dick, with a guilty tremor. "And no blood on my--my father's body, nor in the bed?" "None." "The house has been broken into?" "Yes." "The man who broke into it did the deed," said Reginald, in a low, musing tone; then, after a pause, "But the blood--the blood! How to account for that? How did you get into the house?" "Through the front door." "But--the key!" exclaimed Reginald, and Dick fancied he detected signs of confusion. "Where did you get the key from?" "A policeman scaled the wall at the back of the house, and entered through the broken window. He found the key in your father's room, and he came down and let us in." "He had to draw the bolts?" "The door was not bolted, and the chain was not up." "Then my father couldn't----," said Reginald, and suddenly checked himself. "Go on." "When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girl were in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, but the policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husband has not been seen since Friday week." "Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointing to the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed, "I was in ignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is a mystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that very Friday, when I went to see my father in Catchpole Square." "Yes?" said Dick, eagerly, greatly relieved at this candid confession. It was a gleam of comfort.