“My poor Valencia!” she said in a soft, cooing voice. “Your dear father!—I came at once, the very moment I heard, to tell you and Harry how sorry I am, and to see what I could do. But—you’d expected it, hadn’t you?—and he was so very, very old, to be sure. And another thing—of course, you’ll let Sir Guy know at once—I—the fact is, Valencia, I saw Guy last night after—after I was here, you know—and—well, he’s altered his plans, and the address he gave you in London won’t find him for a few days. But I know where to find him—and hadn’t you better wire him at once? You see——” She had run on so rapidly that neither Valencia nor any of the men had been able to get in a word. But now, as she was pulling out a scrap of paper from her muff, Harry Markenmore broke in, sharply. “Stop her, somebody!” he said half-angrily. “Tell her!” Chilford moved across to the hearth, holding up a hand. “Mrs. Tretheroe!” he said quietly. “I—the fact is, you are not aware of what has occurred this morning. You’d better hear. It’s not only that Sir Anthony is dead—his son is dead, too. He——” “Look out!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery, keenly watchful. “She’s going to faint!” The Chief Constable stretched out a hand. But Mrs. Tretheroe pushed it aside. She had turned pale to her lips; her eyes blazed as she fixed them on Chilford. “Dead?” she said intensely. “Guy Markenmore! Dead! It’s a lie!” “Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the strict truth,” retorted Chilford, as if a little nettled, and not a little scornful. “Mr. Guy Markenmore was found dead this morning, on the way between here and Mitbourne, and there’s no doubt that he was murdered.” Mrs. Tretheroe gasped and started back against the big table that filled the centre of the room. Leaning heavily against it she lifted a hand towards her throat, as if something began to choke her. Her eyes, growing wild and desperate, fixed themselves on one face after another; finally they rested on Harborough, who was watching her intently. And then, with a cry that was half a scream, she lifted her hand still higher, pointing at him. “Murdered?” she said. “Guy!—murdered? Then—then—there’s the man who murdered him!—I know it! Dare to say you didn’t, John Harborough!—you know you did! You threatened—seven years ago—to kill him whenever, wherever, you and he next met—and now—now—you’ve done it! Guy?—dead?—I—oh, God—I—I promised—last night—only a few hours ago—to—to marry him! We—Valencia!—we were going to be married—at once!” “Now she _is_ fainting!” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Good God!—what revelations!”