"What has happened?" asked the girl in a troubled voice. "Nothing," said Tarling airily. "It was probably your disreputable step-father did this. He may have lost his key." "He could have gone in the front door," said the girl uneasily. "Well, I'll go first," said Tarling with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling. He went upstairs, his lamp in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. The stairs ended in a balustraded landing from which two doors opened. "That is mother's room," said the girl, pointing to the nearest. A sense of impending trouble made her shiver. Tarling put his arms about her encouragingly. He walked to the door of the room, turned the handle and opened it. There was something behind the door which held it close, and exerting all his strength he pushed the door open sufficiently far to allow of his squeezing through. On the desk a table-lamp was burning, the light of which was hidden from the outside by the heavily-curtained windows, but it was neither at the window nor at the desk that he was looking. Mrs. Rider lay behind the door, a little smile on her face, the haft of a dagger standing out with hideous distinctness beneath her heart. CHAPTER XXVII THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT Tarling gave one glance before he turned to the girl, who was endeavouring to push past him, and catching her by the arm gently thrust her back into the passage. "What is wrong? What is wrong?" she asked in a terrified whisper. "Oh, let me go to mother." She struggled to escape from his grip, but he held her firmly. "You must be brave, for your own sake--for everybody's sake," he entreated her. Still holding her arm, he forced her to the door of the second inner room. His hand felt for the electric switch and found it. He was in what appeared to be a spare bedroom, plainly furnished, and from this a door led, apparently into the main building. "Where does that door lead?" he asked, but she did not appear to hear him. "Mother, mother!" she was moaning, "what has happened to my mother?" "Where does that door lead?" he asked again, and for answer she slipped her trembling hand into her pocket and produced a key. He opened the door and found himself in a rectangular gallery overlooking the hall. She slipped past him, but he caught her and pushed her back. "I tell you, you must be calm, Odette," he said firmly, "you must not give way. Everything depends upon your courage. Where are the servants?" Then, unexpectedly, she broke away from him and raced back through the door into the wing they had left. He followed in swift pursuit. "For God's sake, Odette, don't, don't," he cried, as she flung herself against the door and burst into her mother's room. One glance she gave, then she fell on the floor by the side of her dead mother, and flinging her arms about the form kissed the cold lips.