“I found it out because a girl was too shrewd and brave for you. Miss Trelane, by a coincidence, obtained that broken cuff-link; she knew the hold the stolen diamonds had given you on her mother; she came to London by chance, came on the only night since the murder when she could lay her hands on the evidence that was wanted; she found the boy, and brought him straight to me, with the broken bit of jewelry that I found the other half of in your room.” “She? Ismay!” His oath sounded loud in the quiet room. “She was a spy! Well, it’s a comfort to me to know that I’ve killed her!” He stretched out his manacled hands and pointed where the girl lay on the floor, face down. No one had noticed her at first. She had tripped and lay still, worn out--that was all. But they looked now on a huddled heap of white satin, on slow blood that oozed scarlet from her hidden forehead. Cristiane screamed from the depths of a penitent soul: “She’s dead! He’s killed her. And it was she who saved me just now. He was trying to push me through the banisters, and I looked up and saw her. She motioned with her hand for me to drop down flat, and I did. It saved me, for the upper part of the banisters went, as I would have gone if I’d been standing. I thought it was the ghost, but I saw her eyes, and I knew her. I dropped as she meant me to, and then he stooped to throw me over, and she sprang at him from behind. Oh! Ismay!” she threw herself on the floor by the slight figure that was so awful in its stillness. “Ismay, look up! Forgive me! Don’t lie like that!” But Ismay did not stir. Davids put out a hand that shook in his dread, to draw Cristiane away. But some one was quicker than he; some one who hurled himself through the doorway, brushing past Thomas and Mrs. Trelane as if he did not see them. Cylmer, by merest chance, had been hunting twenty miles off, doing his best to forget the girl he loved, had stayed to dine with a noisy party, and came back by train. As he stood on the station platform, waiting for his dog-cart, a man had touched him on the shoulder. “Kivers!” he cried. “What brings you here?” “Good news for you, Mr. Cylmer!” the man said softly, though there was no one in hearing. “The inspector has discovered Lord Abbotsford’s murderer. He and three of the force are at Marchant’s Hold now. I’m waiting here, in case there’s any accidents, and they make a run for the station.” “They! Marchant’s Hold!” Cylmer was sick. Then the blow had fallen! “I’m going there,” he said, through set lips. Was he too late? Could he carry off Ismay, or would he find her with handcuffs on her wrists? “Wait; they won’t let you in; our men won’t know you.” Kivers thrust a hastily scrawled card in Cylmer’s hand, wondering not at all at his excitement, when at last the murderer of his friend was in his hands.