A little under the age of fifteen they had foregathered at Harrow, drawn together by that strange attraction which sometimes unites totally opposite temperaments. They had gone up form by form in company. Hugh the mental superior, beating his friend at the last lap of all, and attaining the proud position of Head of the School. In the same year they had been put into the cricket eleven and had done battle against Eton at Lord’s. At Balliol, whither they both proceeded, the intimacy grew stronger, and here again history repeated itself. They both represented their University in cricket against Cambridge, as they had represented Harrow. And now this life, so full of promise and opportunity, had been blotted out by his own rash act. And, even more terrible, Hugh Craig had gone to his last account with the sin of murder, or at least attempted murder, on his soul. What terrible thing was it that had so unhinged his mind? The police had found the pistol clutched firmly in his dead hand. This fearful deed, then, was not due to some sudden temptation of the moment. It must have been premeditated or he would not have taken a loaded weapon with him to this peaceful villa. When Hugh had bade his friend good-bye, he must have had murder, and afterwards self-destruction, in his mind. When the young man had left the death-chamber, he inquired after Madame Makris, and was informed that she was prostrated with grief, as was quite natural. He exchanged a few words with the furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street a short time ago. “I saw you together the other day,” he said, “but you did not see me, and I hastened as quickly as possible out of sight, as I did not wish to appear to be spying upon my friend. Do you know anything that can throw light upon this?” The shabby individual lowered his eyes as he answered. “No, monsieur, I am sorry to say, nothing. My acquaintance with Monsieur Craig was very slight.” If the man was not actually lying, it was obvious there was nothing to be got out of him. Lydon impatiently asked him if he was one of the regular police. To this question he replied that he was not, that he followed the profession of private inquiry agent, as it would be called in England. That he was naturally in the course of his business frequently in communication with them, and that having heard of the terrible tragedy at the Villa, he had begged permission to accompany them there. Later on, Lydon put himself into communication with the dead man’s family, and Hugh’s elder brother came over to Nice at once to superintend the arrangements. Geoffrey Craig, a rather severe-looking man, who held a minor Governmental post, was as much bewildered by the catastrophe as Lydon himself. He had never heard of the Makris family in connection with his brother.