“Nothing. The offer of a reward has resulted in nothing—not one little scrap of information. The London detective gave up the business and went back to town a week after the funeral, having obtained only negative results. The police hereabouts are creatures without an idea; and so unless something is done, unless some clever brain can solve the riddle, the wretch who killed my husband may go down to the grave unpunished.” “It is hard that it should be so,” said Theodore, quietly, “yet it is an almost impossible case. There is not a single indication so far to put one on the track—not one little clue.” “Not for these dull-brained, mechanical discoverers, perhaps; but for you or me, Theo,—for us who loved him there ought to be light. Think, what a strange murder it was. Not for gain, remember. Had it been the hand of a burglar that shot him, I could understand the difficulty of tracing that particular criminal among all the criminal classes. But _this_ murder, which seems utterly motiveless, must have been prompted by some extraordinary motive. It was not the act of a maniac; a maniac must have left some trace of his presence in the neighbourhood. A maniac could not have so completely eluded the police on the alert to hunt him down. There must have been some indication.” “Put madness out of the question, Juanita, what then?” “Hatred, Theodore. That is the strongest passion in the human mind—a savage hatred which could not be satisfied except with the brightest life that it had the power to destroy—a relentless hatred—not against him, not against my beloved. What had he done in all his good life that any one upon this earth should hate _him_? But against us—against my father and mother and me—the usurpers, the owners of Cheriton Manor; against us who have thrust ourselves upon the soil which that wicked race held so long. Oh, Theodore, I have thought and thought of this, till the conviction has grown into my mind—till it has seemed like a revelation from God. It was one of that wicked family who struck this blow.” “One of your predecessors—the Strangways? Is that what you mean, Nita?” “Yes, that is what I mean.” “My dear Juanita, it is too wild an idea. What, after your father has owned the estate nearly a quarter of a century? Why should the enemy wait all those years—and choose such a time?” “Because there never before was such an opportunity of striking a blow that should bring ruin upon us. My father’s hope of making his son-in-law his successor in the peerage was known to a good many people. It may easily have reached the ears of the Strangways.” “My dear girl, the family has died off like rotten sheep. I doubt if there are any survivors of the old race.” “Oh, but families are not obliterated so easily. There is always some one left. There were two sons and a daughter of the old squire’s. Surely one of those must have left children.”