Theodore Dalbrook stood looking at that stain. It seemed to bring the fatal reality nearer to him. He looked at the low chair with its covering of peacock plush, and its Turkish embroidery draped daintily across the broad back and capacious arms—a chair to live in—a sybarite’s estate,—and then at the satinwood book-table filled with such books as the lounger loves—Southey’s “Doctor,” “Burton,” “Table Talk,” by Coleridge, Whateley, Rogers, “The Sentimental Journey,” “Rochefoucauld,” “Caxtoniana,” “Elia,” and thrown carelessly upon one of the shelves a handkerchief of cobweb cambric, with a monogram that occupied a third of the fabric, “J.C.” Her handkerchief, dropped there last night, as she arranged the books for her husband’s use—putting her own favourites in his way. Lambert took up a book and opened it with a dismal smile, handing it to Mr. Dalbrook as he did so. It was “Wider Horizons,” the volume he had been reading when the bullet struck him, and those open pages were spattered with his blood. “Put it away for God’s sake, man,” cried Dalbrook, horrified. “Whatever you do, don’t let Lady Carmichael see it.” “No, sir, better not, perhaps, sir—but it’s evidence, and it ought to be produced at the inquest.” “Produce it if you like; but there is evidence enough to show that he was murdered on this spot.” “As he sat reading, sir; the book is a great point.” And then Lambert expounded the position of that lifeless form, making much of every detail, as he had done to the constable. While he was talking, the door was opened suddenly, and Juanita rushed into the room. “Lord have mercy on us, she mustn’t see that,” cried Lambert, pointing to the carpet. Matthew Dalbrook hurried forward to meet her, and caught her in his arms before she could reach that fatal spot. He held her there, looking at her with pitying eyes, while Theodore approached slowly, silently, agonized by the sight of her agony. The change from the joyous self-abandonment of yesterday to the rigid horror of to-day was the most appalling transformation that he had ever looked upon. Her face was of a livid pallor, her large dark eyes were distended and fixed, and all their brilliancy was quenched like a light blown out. Her blanched lips trembled as she tried to speak, and it was after several futile efforts to express her meaning that she finally succeeded in shaping a sentence distinctly. “Have they found his murderer?” “Not yet, dearest. It is far too soon to hope for that. But it is not for you to think about that, Juanita. All will be done—be sure—rest secure in the devotion of those who love you; and——” with a break in his voice, “who loved him.” She lifted her head quickly, with an angry light in the eyes which had been so dull till that moment.