“Now,” he said, in a low voice, “this is Captain Luvaine, Whimple, from whose father was stolen the ‘Lake of Wine.’ Tell us plainly, and in a few words, the story of its discovery by your sister.” The man bowed and moistened his lips. Once or twice he glanced in a frightened way about him, as if he sought some loophole of escape from the situation. “Gentlemen, ’twas in the winter of ’81 that the body, _his_ body, fell from the chains, and that the skull was brought hither by my sister--then a child of five, and a poor natural as she has ever been--to add to a strange collection of odds-and-ends it has been her delight to form. And there it had remained to a certain day after the coming of my master, who took an objection to it, and bade me rid the house of the thing.” He paused, and passed a hand across his wet brow. “Go on,” said Tuke. “I will take the blame of its disappearance, and I confess I acted harshly to the girl.” Luvaine, from lowered eyelids, shot a malignant glance at the speaker. “There was a woman,” continued Dennis faintly, “that used to come upon me from time to time for the little help I could afford her--a strange, wild wanderer, whose hand was against every man as she imagined every man’s was against her. I gave the skull to her. She asked for it. She would keep and cherish it, she said, in--in memory of a great criminal. I gave it to her, and she took it away.” “Where----?” began Luvaine; but Tuke motioned him to silence. “Let the man tell his story in his own way,” he said. “It has been gone long months,” said Whimple, “when suddenly, this day or two ago, my sister (ah! gentlemen,” he interpolated with great emotion--“she hath not the wit to distinguish between right and wrong!) amazes me with the confession that, from early in her possession of the skull, she has known a great crimson stone--which later she learned to identify by its fanciful title--to be fixed and buried in one of its eyesockets, and that this stone had been at one time cemented smoothly over its outer surface and something resembling the picture of an eye enamelled thereon. Gentlemen, all confounded as I was, I rushed to my master, and told him what I had heard.” Luvaine was jerking in his chair and gnawing his knuckles like a madman. “Whither has it been taken?” he cried in a strangled voice. “That is the one moral of this accursed concatenation of accident and brutality. What has she done with it--where does she live, this woman? She must be come at--my God! she must be held responsible and whipped into disgorging.” Whimple had shrunk back; but for all his instinctive action his face had taken a dark flush. “She must be assured from violence, whatever has happened,” he said in a pretty strong voice, “or I will not move a finger to help you to her.” Tuke put in a decided word. This first sign of courage in his man-servant surprised and pleased him. “I guarantee her gentle treatment, Dennis,” he said.