"I don't know," he replied. "I should imagine they would keep the body at the police station until the morning. I don't suppose they'd be such mugs as to disturb Lord Radclyffe at this time of night; the shock might kill the old man." "I suppose they are quite sure that it is Philip de Mountford who was killed?" "Why, yes; he had his pocket-book, his cards, his letters on him, and money too--robbery was not the object of the crime." "It was Philip de Mountford then?" "Good God, yes! Of whom were you thinking?" "I was thinking of Luke," she replied simply. The old man said nothing more. Had he spoken at all then it would have been to tell her that he, too, was thinking of Luke and that there was perhaps not a single person in the magnificent house at that moment who was not--in some way or another--thinking of Luke. The hostess came in, elegant and worldly, with banal words to request the pleasure of hearing Miss Harris sing. "It is so kind of you," she said, "to offer. I have never heard you, you know, and people say you have such a splendid voice. But perhaps you would rather not sing to-night?" She spoke English perfectly, but with a slight Scandinavian intonation, which seemed to soften the banality of her words. Being foreign, she thought less of concealing her sympathy, and was much less fearful of venturing on delicate ground. She held out a small, exquisitely gloved hand and laid it almost affectionately on the younger woman's arm. "I am sure you would rather not sing to-night," she said kindly. "Indeed, Countess, why should you think that?" retorted Louisa lightly. "I shall be delighted to sing. I wonder which of these new songs you would like best. There is an exquisite one by Guy d'Hardelot. Shall I sing that?" And Her Excellency, who so charmingly represented Denmark in English society, followed her guest into the reception room: she admired the elegant carriage of the English girl, the slender figure, the soft abundant hair. And Her Excellency sighed and murmured to herself: "They are stiff, these English! and oh! they have no feeling, no sentiment!" And a few moments later when Louisa Harris's really fine voice, firm and clear, echoed in the wide reception room, Her Excellency reiterated her impressions: "These English have no heart! She sings and her lover is suspected of murder! Bah! they have no heart!" CHAPTER XIV THE TALE HAD TO BE TOLD And whilst the morning papers were unfolded by millions of English men and women, and the details of the mysterious crime discussed over eggs and bacon and buttered toast, Philip de Mountford, the newly found heir presumptive to the Earldom of Radclyffe, was lying in the gloomy mortuary chamber of a London police court, whither he had been conveyed in the same cab whose four narrow walls jealously guarded the secret of the tragedy which had been enacted within their precincts.