“What are you doing here?” he demanded gruffly of the parlourmaid. “Dusting your table, sir,” replied Jenkins, in a tone that respectfully asked to be informed whether Carpentaria was blind. “Who told you to dust my table?” “Mistress, sir.” “Where is your mistress?” “I don’t know, sir. She told me to come up and dust the room.” A pause. “I--er--really don’t know.” “Go and find her. Ask her to speak to me at once.” “Yes, sir.” “Half a minute, Jenkins. It was you who brought my milk up?” “Yes, sir.” “Where did you take it from?” “Mistress gave it me with her own hands, sir.” “And you brought it direct to me?” “Yes, sir.” “No one else touched it?” “No, sir.” “Anybody called here this morning?” “Called, sir?” Jenkins seemed ruffled. “Yes. Anybody been to the house?” “No, sir,” said Jenkins, as though in asking if anybody had called Carpentaria was reflecting upon her moral character. And she blushed. “Very well. Go and find your mistress.” Jenkins departed, and came back in a surprisingly short space of time. “Mistress doesn’t seem to be about, sir,” said Jenkins. “What? She hasn’t gone out, has she?” “Not that I know of, sir. But I can’t find her.” “Have you looked in her bedroom?” “I knocked at the door, sir.” “And there was no answer?” “No, sir.” “When did you last see your mistress?” “When she told me to dust this room, sir, after I had brought up your milk.” “Where was she?” “In the dining-room, sir.” A fearful thought ran through the mind of Carpentaria, cutting it like a lancet. Suppose that Juliette had been poisoned! Suppose that an attempt had been made against her, as against him, but with more success! He hurried out of the room and knocked loudly at her bedroom-door. “Juliette! Are you there?” No answer. “Juliette, I say!” Again no answer. His heart almost stopped. He opened the door and entered the room. It was empty, but already the bed had been made and everything tidied. He penetrated to the dressing-room, which was equally neat and equally empty. Then he searched the house and the premises; he searched everywhere except in the little outhouse wherein was hidden the corpse of the drunken man. At length, after a futile cross-examination of the cook in the kitchen, he perceived that the scullery-maid, in the scullery was surreptitiously beckoning to him. This ungainly chit, Polly, whose person was only kept presentable by the ceaseless efforts of Juliette, had red hair, rather less red than Carpentaria’s, and she worshipped him afar off. She had that “cult” for him which very humble servants do sometimes entertain for masters who never even throw them a glance. And now she was beckoning to him and making eyes! He followed her through the scullery into the yard. “Do you want mistress, sir?” asked Polly in a whisper. “Yes.” “Well, she’s over the wye, sir.” “Over the way?”