"On what grounds--for what reason," said Mr. Brock. "Killing Angus would not give him the money, if that is what you are thinking of. No, I am sure Trall is dead. He was too restless and ambitious a man to remain quiet; and when he had exhausted his own share of the blackmail, he would, in all probability, come here for the purpose of blackmailing Bellairs." "Perhaps he knew you were here, Mr. Brock." "Perhaps. And, so far, I may have been a safeguard to Bellairs. But knowing Trall well as I do, I think he would have run even the risk of my denouncing him, had there been money to be gained." "When did you see Trall last?" "At Kikat. He followed me with the intention of frustrating my plans; and he would have done so at the cost of murder, I make no doubt. But I changed the route I had intended to take, and, I am thankful to say, he missed me." At that moment the voice of the housekeeper could be heard raised in anger--evidently, from the deeper tones which followed, against some man. Mr. Brock grew deadly pale, and his heart beat wildly with sheer nervousness. "See--see what it is, Mr. Mallow!" he gasped, "Oh, this will kill me!" The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill expostulations of the sour spinster. "I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is the clergyman? I must see the clergyman." "Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----" "Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his visitor gazed blankly at one another. "Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!" "Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?" "Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm Jerry." The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of recognition, he fell back dead. CHAPTER VII. "THE CIPHER DIARY."