An hour's drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a time when the _fetes champetres_ at Devonshire House were attended by the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs nowadays. Mabel's brother had resided here with his wife and their two children for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a good deal of his time in his study. It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me. "Ah, Mr. Harold!" he cried, on recognising me. "I'm glad you've come, sir. It's a terrible night's work that's been done here." "What do you mean?" I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr. Travers standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting an explanation. "It's horrible," he replied. "I--I found poor George dead--_murdered_!" "Murdered?" I echoed. "Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery," he said. "The detectives are now making their examination." As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was horror-stricken at the sight. This room, in which George Travers spent most of his time, was of medium size, with French windows opening upon the lawn, and lined from floor to ceiling with books, while the centre was occupied by a large writing-table, littered with papers. Beside the table, with blanched face upturned to the green-tinted light of the reading-lamp, lay the corpse of my brother-in-law, while from a wound in his neck the blood had oozed, forming a great dark pool upon the carpet. It was evident that he had fallen in a sitting posture in the chair when the fatal blow had been dealt; then the body had rolled over on to the floor, for in the position it had been discovered it still remained. The crime was a most remarkable one. George Travers had retired to do some writing shortly before eight o'clock, leaving his father and his wife together in the drawing-room, and expressing a wish not to be disturbed. At ten, old Mr. Travers, who was about to return home, entered the room for the purpose of bidding his son good-night, when, to his dismay, he found him stabbed to the heart, the body rigid and cold. The window communicating with the garden stood open, the small safe had been ransacked, the drawers in the writing-table searched, and there was every evidence that the crime was the deliberate work of an assassin who had been undisturbed.