It would be impossible to picture, with any hope of success, the horror which accompanied the ghastly discovery described at the end of the previous chapter. Save for the cries of the ladies, who shrank from the box and covered their faces with their hands, and a muttered ejaculation from Godfrey, some seconds elapsed before any one spoke. Fensden was the first to recover his presence of mind. Picking up the sheet of paper which had fallen to the ground, he covered the box with it, thus shutting out all sight of the dreadful things it contained. “Perhaps it would be as well, ladies, if you were to leave the room,” he said. “Godfrey and I must talk this matter over, and consider how we are to act.” “Come, mother,” said Kitty, and she led the old lady in a semi-fainting condition from the room, closely followed by Molly. When the door had closed behind them, Godfrey spoke for the first time. “Good Heavens, Victor!” he said. “What does this mean? Am I mad or dreaming?” “I fear it is no dream,” replied the other. “Who could have done it? Is it a case of murder, or what? Did you recognise the--the hands?” Godfrey crossed to the chimney-piece and covered his face. A suspicion, so terrible that he dared not put it into words, was fast taking possession of him. “Come, come,” said Victor, crossing to him, and placing his hands upon his shoulder, “we must look this matter squarely in the face. Be a man, and help me. The upshot may be even more serious than we suppose. Once more I ask you, did you recognise what you saw?” “I fear so,” said Godfrey, very slowly, as if he were trying to force himself to speak. “There was a little scar, the result of a burn, half-an-inch or so above the knuckle of the second finger of the right hand.” He had painted those beautiful hands too often not to remember that scar. Without a word, he crossed to the table in the middle of the room upon which the box stood, surrounded by the cases containing the other wedding presents, and once more removing the lid and the paper, carefully examined what he saw there. No, God help him! there could be no sort of doubt about it; the hands were those of Teresina Cardi, his model and friend. When he had satisfied himself as to their identity, he closed the box and turned to Fensden once more. “It is too horrible,” he said; “but what does it mean? Why should the murderer have sent the hands to me in this dreadful way?” “That is what I have been asking myself,” Fensden replied. “The man, whoever he was, must have borne you a fiendish grudge to have done such a thing. Is there anything about the box that will afford a clew as to the identity of the sender? Let us look.” He examined the box carefully, but, beyond the printed name of the firm who had originally used it, there was nothing that could serve as a clew. It had come by train from Euston, and had been sent off on the previous evening. That for the present was all there was to know about it.