"There's something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There's a girl lying there--a pretty girl dressed in grey--and I believe she's dead." "Dead!" I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel. "Yes," he cried, excitedly. "I believe she's been murdered!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SILENCE. "Murdered!" I gasped, springing to my feet. "Impossible!" "I've just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I didn't stop to make an examination." Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St Martin's Lane; while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my chambers could be reached was the porter's box, but placed in such a position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the stairs. I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her, but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky. It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening, across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the stage-door of the Alhambra. "Blood!" I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not been caused by a fall. "Yes," exclaimed Bryant, "she's evidently been stabbed. Do you know her?" "Know her!" I cried. "She's my intended wife!" "Your betrothed!" he gasped. "My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a frightful shock for you!" And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor at the top of St Martin's Lane. Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon Bryant's arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast. Respiration had returned.