The servants inclined to the opinion that it was the act of a poacher. Lord Cheriton had always been what they called a mark upon poachers. There was doubtless a vendetta to which the pheasant-snaring fraternity had pledged themselves, and Sir Godfrey was the victim of that vendetta; however strange it might appear that hatred of Lord Cheriton should find its expression in the murder of Lord Cheriton’s son-in-law. “We must wait for the inquest before we can know anything,” said Dolby, when he had done all that surgery could do for that cold clay, which was to compose the lifeless form in its final rest in a spare bedroom at the end of the corridor, remote from that bridal chamber where Juanita was lying motionless in her dumb despair. The local policeman was on the scene at seven o’clock, prowling about the house with a countenance of solemn stolidity, and asking questions which seemed to have very little direct bearing on the case, and taking measurements between the spot where the murdered man had been found, too plainly marked by the pool of blood which had soaked into the velvet pile, and imaginary points upon the terrace outside, with the doctor at his elbow to make suggestions, and as far as in him lay behaving as a skilled London detective might have behaved under the same circumstances, which conduct on his part did not prevent Mr. Dolby telegraphing to Scotland Yard as soon as the wires were at his disposal. He was in the village post-office when the clock struck eight, and the postmistress, who had hung out a flag and decorated her shop front with garlands on the wedding day, was watching him with an awe-stricken countenance as he wrote his telegrams. The first was to Scotland Yard:— “Sir Godfrey Carmichael murdered late last night. Send one of your most trustworthy men to investigate.” The second was to Lord Cheriton, Grand Hotel, Paramé St. Malo, France:— “Sir Godfrey Carmichael was murdered last night, between twelve and one o’clock. Murderer unknown. Death instantaneous. Pray come immediately.” The third was to Matthew Dalbrook, more briefly announcing the murder. He was going to send a fourth message to Lady Jane Carmichael, began to write her address, then thought better of it, and tore up the form. “I’ll drive over and tell her,” he said to himself. “Poor soul, it will break her heart, let her learn it how she may. But it would be cruel to telegraph, all the same.” Every one at Cheriton knew that Lady Jane’s affections were centred upon her only son. She had daughters, and she was very fond of them. They were both married, and had married well; but their homes lay far off, one in the Midlands, the other in the North of England, and although in each case there was a nursery full of grandchildren, neither the young married women nor the babies had ever filled Lady Jane’s heart as her son had filled it.