“This house has an interest for me that it would have for no one else,” said Theodore, presently, while his friend filled his briar-wood. “My kinsman, Lord Cheriton, occupied the rooms underneath these for about a dozen years; and it is a fancy of mine to keep his image before me as I sit here alone with my books. It reminds me of what a man can do in the profession which so many of my friends declare to be hopeless.” “No one knows anything about it, Theodore. If you went into statistics you would find that the chances of success in the learned professions are pretty nearly equal. So many men will get on, and so many will fail, at every trade, in every calling. The faculty of success lies in the man himself. I always thought you were the kind of man to do well in whatever line you hit upon. A calm, clear brain and a resolute will are the first factors in the sum of life. And so Lord Cheriton lived in this house, did he? I have heard people talk of him as a very distinguished man, as well as a very lucky one. By-the-by, it was in his house that strange murder occurred last year.” “Yes, it was in his house, and it was his daughter’s husband who was murdered.” “Tell me the story, Theodore,” said Ramsay, leaning back his handsome head, and half closing his eyes, with the air of a man who liked hearing about murders. “I read the account in the papers at the time, but I’ve very nearly forgotten all about it.” Theodore complied, and gave his friend the history of the case, and the failure of every attempt to find the murderer. “And there has been nothing discovered since last summer?” “Nothing!” “That is rather hard upon Lord Cheriton—bearing in mind your detective’s suggestion of a vendetta. The vendetta would not be likely to close with the death of Sir Godfrey Carmichael. Hatred would demand further victims—Lord Cheriton himself perhaps—or this lovely young widow,—but there could hardly be such a vindictive feeling without a strong cause. Enmity so deadly must have had a beginning in a profound sense of wrong.” “I have studied the case from that point of view, but can discover no cause for such malignity. I have almost given up all hope of unravelling the mystery.” “And your kinsman is to live under the sword of Damocles for the rest of his life? Upon my soul I pity him. I can imagine nothing in Ireland worse than the murder of Sir Godfrey Carmichael—a man seated peacefully in his own drawing-room; and a high-principled, amiable young man, you tell me, who never was known to wrong his fellow-man.” * * * * *