“Um!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery dryly. “But—are there? I mean—seriously?” “Mrs. Tretheroe—and her following,” suggested Harborough. “Has she any following?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, more dryly. “And as for herself—temper, my dear sir, temper! I don’t believe the woman thinks anything of the sort, if you could really get at her mind—if she has one.” “I think she did—at first,” said Harborough, after a moment’s reflection. “Natural, perhaps.” “Natural, perhaps, if one is foolish enough to believe that people cherish resentment indefinitely,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “She must know that her accusation was ridiculous! I do not think I should attach the slightest importance to Mrs. Tretheroe’s opinion. But,” he added, as if struck by a sudden happy thought, “I know what I should do!—I should just ask the two young people at Markenmore Court what their wishes are. My opinion is that they would be glad of your presence.” “Hadn’t thought of that,” said Harborough. “Bit slow, I think. I’m sorry enough for them, God knows! And I think they know that whatever I once felt about their brother I—well, I got over it long since.” Mr. Fransemmery gave his visitor a keen, sidelong glance. “I suppose Guy Markenmore really did treat you badly?” he suggested. “Yes!” answered Harborough, with simple directness. “But—I’ve forgotten it. And—not all his fault, either. As I say—I’ve forgotten it.” “Queer business, this murder!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “And now here’s a second mystery. You’ve heard, of course, about this Baron von Eckhardstein?” “No,” replied Harborough. “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been away from Greycloister since very early this morning until just now—came straight to see you as soon as I got back. What about von Eckhardstein?” “Disappeared!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Last night. Clean gone!—no one knows where.” He proceeded to give his guest a circumstantial account of the day’s doings, and of his own share in them. “What do you think of that?” he asked in conclusion. “Odd, isn’t it?” “The whole affair’s odd,” asserted Harborough. “It looks to me as if—but, really, I think that’s impossible!” “What’s impossible?” demanded Mr. Fransemmery. “Well, I was thinking—I was going to say—it almost looks as though this might be a second murder!” answered Harborough diffidently. “I’ve been wondering—but, as I said, I’m a bit slow at the thinking game, sometimes—if von Eckhardstein wasn’t the man who turned up at the Sceptre at two o’clock in the morning? In that case——” Mr. Fransemmery started. “Ah!” he said. “When you came in, I was just getting to some such conclusion myself! If he was that man, then that accounts for something else. But—supposing he was—you were going to say.”