"Ah! I don't know, Master Raife," replied the old servant, shaking his head gravely. "Some secret of his, no doubt. I pressed the master to reveal it to me; but all he would reply was: `I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, Edgson. This is mine!' Then he murmured something about `her' and `that woman'--a woman in the case, it struck me, Master Raife." "A woman!" echoed young Remington. "So it seemed. But, Master Raife, in my position I couldn't well inquire further into the poor master's secret. Besides, her ladyship and others came in at the moment. So he uttered no other word--and died before Doctor Grant could arrive." "But what does this all mean, Edgson?" asked the dead man's son, astounded. "I don't know, Master Raife," replied the grave-faced old man. "I really don't know, sir." "To my mind, it seems as though his secret was, in some mysterious way, connected with the fellow who shot him," declared the young fellow, pale and anxious. "My poor mother does not know--eh?" "She knows nothing, Master Raife. In the years I have been in the service of your family, I have learnt discretion. I have told you this, sir, because you are my master's son," was the faithful man's response. "You had no inkling of any secret, Edgson?" "None in the least, sir, though I have been in Sir Henry's service thirty-two years come next Michaelmas." "It's a complete mystery then?" "Yes, sir, a complete mystery. But perhaps you'd like to see the master's murderer? We've taken his body over to the empty cottage at the stables. I'm expecting the detectives from London every minute. Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard for assistance." "Yes. Take me over there, Edgson," said Raife, boldly. "I wonder if I know him! This secret of my father's which he intended to reveal to me, though prevented by death, I mean to investigate--to unravel the mystery. Come, Edgson." And the young master--now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet--followed the grave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive, where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock of which, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out the hour. CHAPTER THREE. THE FATAL FINGERS. Upon a bench in the front room of the artistic little cottage, the exterior of which was half hidden by Virginia creeper, lay the body of the stranger. He was of middle age, with a dark, well-trimmed moustache, high cheek-bones, and hair slightly tinged with grey. He was wearing a smart, dark tweed suit, but his collar had been disarranged, and his tie removed, in the cursory examination made by the police when called.