"Who's that?" said the constable, sharply. "Oh, you, Mr Butler." "Yes; I've brought the brandy for Mr Girtle, sir." "Never mind, now," said the policeman. "Set it down. Gentlemen, I've got a theory about this here." He turned on his bull's-eye again, as he spoke. "A theory?" cried Capel, impatiently. "Yes, sir. You see that crooked knife thing?" "Yes." "And the mark of the bloody hand on the counterpane, where it is dragged?" "Yes, we saw that." "Well, has any one looked under the bed?" "No." "Then we shall find him there." He stepped forward and raised the heavy valance, directing the light beneath. "There!" he exclaimed. "What did I say?" CHAPTER TEN. "WHY, DOCTOR, HE'S DEAD!" In one moment the slow, heavy-looking constable changed, from a rustic, loutish fellow, to a man full of intelligent observation, for, as he raised the valance of the bed, there, indistinctly seen, was the body of a man, either through fear or to escape observation. With a quick motion of the hand, the constable opened the leather case at his side, and drew his truncheon. "Stand at the window, sir," he said to Capel. "You, sir, keep the door. Now, then," he cried, as soon as he had been obeyed, and in a sharp, authoritative voice. "The game's up. Out you came." Capel set his teeth hard, for all this was horrible in that chamber of death. "Do you hear?" cried the constable, sharply, for there was neither word nor movement from beneath the bed. "Oh, very well," he continued, "only I warn you I stand no nonsense." And the occupants of the room prepared for a struggle, with beating hearts. The constable stepped back to them, and from behind his hand, said, softly: "Be ready, perhaps there's two." He stepped back and stooped with his staff ready for a blow. "Now, then," he cried; "is it surrender?" There was no answer, and, he thrust his hand beneath the bed, seized the man's leg, and dragged him out into the room, but only to loose his hold and start away. "Why, doctor!" he cried, "he's dead." The doctor caught up a candlestick and dropped on one knee beside the fresh horror, while the light from the bull's-eye was again brought to bear, and mingled with the wan, yellow rays that struggled in through the panes. "Good God, gentlemen!" gasped the butler, "it's Charles." The horribly distorted features were, indeed, those of the footman, and the mystery of the death-chamber began to grow lighter, for it was evident that for some reason he had entered the room in the night. For no good mission, certainly, a short whalebone-handled life-preserver hanging by a twisted thong from his wrist. The hideous stains upon the kukri were clearly enough explained by the sight of a terrible gash in the man's throat, and one of his hands was crimsoned and smeared--the one that had left its print upon the quilt, as, in his death struggle, he had rolled beneath the bed.