Deborah was not paying much heed to their discoveries. She was watching for an opportunity, when their backs were turned, of slipping down into the adjoining cellar to find out what had become of Rees. But an exclamation from both men at once, as they crossed with their heavy tread to the corner indicated, riveted her attention. “Look here, miss,” called one of them. Deborah crept forward, prepared for some horrible sight, and thinking still of Rees. On the damp, muddy floor, with a piece of old and frayed matting wrapped around it, lay the body of a man. As Deborah drew near, the flickering match held by the policeman went out, and while he struck another his companion laid his hand on the lady’s arm with evident suspicion. Deborah did not resent the touch; she stood in a dumb agony of dread. When the lantern was lighted, she dared not look; the policeman drew her forward. “Will you besergood as to tell us whether you know the gentleman?” She glanced down, and utterly unable to restrain herself, almost shrieked: “Lord St. Austell! Dead! Murdered!” The men looked at each other and at her. By her tone they knew that the sight was for her a ghastly surprise, and the man who had held her arm at once let it go. Lord St. Austell was a well-known and popular peer, and, looking closer, one of the policemen recognised his face. “She’s right. The lady’s right, Bill,” said he more respectfully. And the men looked at each other and at Deborah again. The dead earl’s character was so well-known that their first thought was of an ambush laid, with a handsome woman as decoy. “Do you know who’s done this, ma’am?” asked one, bluntly. “Yes, the man who escaped upstairs; his name is Amos Goodhare,” she answered promptly. “But come into the inner cellar. There may be another murdered man lying there,” she cried, rousing herself suddenly out of the numb apathy into which the horrible sight had cast her. “You go, Fred; I’ll stay here.” The other nodded and accompanied her to the door of the inner cellar, where Deborah fumbled for a minute with weak, wet fingers. “Open it,” said she hoarsely. The man did so, and leapt down at once into the den. The fire was getting low now, but the air was still as hot as a furnace, and there was enough light for him to find his way to the prostrate form of Rees. “By Jove! Another!” he muttered. Deborah got down with difficulty, and tottered with swimming brain across the floor. “Rees, Rees!” she whispered. “Dead, too!” “No, miss, not quite--this one,” said the policeman, trying to speak re-assuringly, but growing every moment more perplexed by the whole affair. “This poor chap may come round, I think, if he ain’t bled too much. Let’s try to stop the bleeding if we can.” Scarcely knowing what she did, Deborah lent her aid. Pressing her fingers to the wound, she said imploringly: “Go and fetch a doctor as quickly as you can, please. It is his only chance.” “All right, miss,” said the man.