“I was going to say that in that case, it looks as if he and Guy Markenmore had been mixed up in business matters,” replied Harborough. “And if so, business matters—some big money deal—may be at the bottom of this. For instance, somebody may have wanted to get rid of both of ’em? Heard of cases of that sort myself—not in this country, though.” “It may be, it may be!” assented Mr. Fransemmery. “The whole thing is a mystery which seems difficult of solution, and——” What more Mr. Fransemmery was going to say was never said. At that moment the door opened, the trim parlour-maid murmured something indistinctly, stepped aside, vanished, and gave place to Valencia Markenmore, who came into the room so rapidly that she failed to see Harborough, whose tall figure was hidden from her by a screen. “Oh, Mr. Fransemmery!” she exclaimed, as she entered. “Do forgive me for rushing in on you so unceremoniously, but I’m in an awful lot of trouble, and I want your help, and—oh!” She had rounded the screen by that time, and had caught sight of Harborough. Harborough got to his feet, looking uncertain and awkward. “I’ll go!” he said. “No, indeed!” protested Valencia. “Not a bit of it—I’d—I’d just as soon tell you as Mr. Fransemmery—I’ll tell you both. You’re men—you’ll know what to do.” Mr. Fransemmery signed to Harborough to stay where he was and drew a chair forward to the hearth. “What is it, my dear?” he enquired, as Valencia seated herself. “Anything that we can do, I am quite sure will be done—if it’s within our power.” “I don’t know that it’s in anybody’s power to do,” answered Valencia. “Nothing, I should think! The thing’s done, and can’t be undone!” “And what is done?” asked Mr. Fransemmery softly. Valencia looked from one man to the other. Each was watching her attentively; each saw that she was somewhat excited and vexed, and probably angry. “I may as well blurt it straight out!” she said suddenly. “My brother Harry is married to Poppy Wrenne!” Again she glanced at the two men—this time enquiringly. Harborough became Sphinx-like in expression; Mr. Fransemmery took off his spectacles and began to polish them. “Um!” he said, in still softer accents. “A secret marriage?” “Of course!” exclaimed Valencia. “Three months ago—in London.” “And known, until now, to nobody?” enquired Mr. Fransemmery. “Yes, it was known!” said Valencia. “It was known to Mrs. Braxfield!” “The bride’s mother!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery slowly. “Dear me! Really! And so—Poppy Wrenne is really Lady Markenmore?” “Of course!” snapped Valencia. “There’s no doubt about the marriage?—its legality, I mean?” asked Mr. Fransemmery. “None!” declared Valencia, as curtly as before, “whatever!” Mr. Fransemmery remained silent a moment. Then he looked past Valencia, towards Harborough. Harborough, rubbing his chin, stared at the fire. Mr. Fransemmery turned to Valencia. “And what is the trouble?” he enquired. “As you say, my dear, since the thing is done—why, it is done!”