It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it. It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy. Anita Frayne had practically "gone to pieces." She was nervous, and jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her. Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of his time to matters of business connected with the estate. Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent hysterics. The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested the place. Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and rarely talked together. But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by Hardy, the detective. "They've arrested the Count," Hardy began, and Anita screamed an interruption: "Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?" "Yes," returned the detective. "I found the other one of that pair of gloves, the mate to the one in the lady's hands,--where, do you suppose?" "Where?" "Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count's chiffonnier drawer; of course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that while visiting." "I know it," said Pauline, earnestly; "it is hard. I've often noticed that, when I've wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can't do it, unknown to the servants or somebody." "Rubbish!" said Anita, "It would have been easy for the Count to dispose of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn't. He never committed that crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to incriminate an innocent man. It's too absurd to fasten the thing on Count Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same purpose and by the same person!" "By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!" cried Hardy. "Somehow I can't see the Count's hand in this thing, and yet----" "And yet, he did it!" put in Haviland. "Have they really jailed him? I'm glad."