Trains were favourable, and there was no necessity for a special engine to carry Lord Cheriton and his wife to the house of mourning. It was not yet noon when the closed landau drove in at the chief gate of the park, not that side gate in the deep, rocky lane, of which Mrs. Porter was custodian. One of the gardeners lived at the lodge, and it was he who opened the gate this Sunday morning. Lord Cheriton stopped the carriage to question him. He had heard a full account of the murder already from the station-master at Wareham. “Have they found the murderer?” he asked. “No, my Lord; I’m afraid they’re not likely to—begging your Lordship’s pardon for venturing an opinion.” The man was an old servant, and altogether a superior person. “Were the gates locked at the usual time on Friday night?” “Yes, my Lord—the gates were locked, but that wouldn’t keep out a foot-passenger. There’s the turnstile in the lane.” “Of course. Yes, yes. A London detective has been at work, I hear.” “Yes, my Lord; came yesterday before two o’clock, and has been about with Barber ever since.” “And have they discovered nothing?” “Nothing, my Lord—or if they have it has been kept dark.” Lord Cheriton asked no further questions. The man was right. A detective from Scotland Yard was not likely to talk about any minor discoveries that he might have made. Only the one grand discovery of the guilty man would have been made known. Five minutes later the carriage drew up in front of the hall door. What a blank and melancholy look the fine old house had with all the windows darkened. It did not look so dismal as a London house with its level rows of windows and its flat façade would have looked under similar conditions; for here there was variety of mullion and moulding, bay-windows and oriel, dormer and lattice, and over all the growth of lovely creeping plants, starry clematis and passion-flower, clustering Banksia roses and waxen magnolia, an infinite beauty of form and colour. Yet the blind windows were there, with their dull, dead look and chilling suggestion of death. Lady Cheriton looked at the house for a moment or so as she got out of the carriage, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her as if she had scarcely realized the stern reality till that moment.