Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing his guardian. But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room before dinner, he saw that something very serious was the matter. Lucas had expected that Ellery would already have heard the news; but, when he found that he knew nothing, he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or about any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity of the murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been down to Liskeard House to offer his help: he had seen Sir Vernon for a few minutes, and had talked with Joan and Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent Wilson at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in his power to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course, at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their beginning. Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the moment to strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that arose in his mind was that, now at least, there could be no more question of Joan marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most cordially disliked and distrusted Prinsep, and he could not pretend to feel any great sorrow at his death. But he had greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first thought, it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and Lucas spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that had come upon the Brooklyns. But, by-and-by, Ellery’s curiosity began to assert itself. After all there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events of Tuesday night; and mystery had always exercised over him a strong fascination. “I feel a beast,” he said to his guardian, “for thinking of anything but the sorrow of it all; but I’m damned if I can help wanting to find out all about it.” “My dear Bob, that’s perfectly natural. It would be so in any one; but it’s more than natural in your case. You write detective novels; and here you are faced with a crime mystery in real life. You would be more than human if you didn’t want to unravel it. Besides, seriously enough, it wants unravelling, and I don’t think the police are going to have an easy time in finding out the truth.” Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been discovered—how all the evidence seemed to point to the conclusion that Prinsep had murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George had murdered Prinsep. “Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe that either of them killed the other. I’m sure in my own mind that some one else killed both of them; but I haven’t a ghost of an idea who it can have been.” “And so there’s nothing been found out to throw suspicion on anybody else?”