Beecot could not but be impressed. "It is certainly very strange," he said, looking at the book. "And it was queer your father should have been strangled on the very night when this Indian Hokar left the sugar on the counter. A coincidence, Sylvia darling." "No. Why should Hokar leave the sugar at all?" "Well, he didn't eat it, and therefore, if he was a Thug, he would have done so, had he intended to strangle your father." "I don't know," said Sylvia, with a look of obstinacy on her pretty face. "But remember the cruel way in which my father was killed, Paul. It's just what an Indian would do, and then the sugar--oh, I'm quite sure this hawker committed the crime." Beecot shook his head and strove to dissuade her from entertaining this idea. But Sylvia, usually so amenable to reason, refused to discard her theory, and indeed Paul himself thought that the incident of the sugar was queer. He determined to tell Hurd about the matter, and then the hawker might be found and made to explain why he had left the goor on the counter. "But the sect of the Thugs is extinct," argued Paul, quickly; "it can't be, Sylvia." "But it is," she insisted, "I'm sure." And from this firm opinion he could not move her. Finally, when he departed, he took the books with him, and promised to read the novel again. Perhaps something might come of Sylvia's fancy. The lovers spent the rest of the time in talking over their future, and Beecot looked hopefully towards making sufficient money to offer Sylvia a home. He also described to her how he had met Mrs. Krill and related what she was prepared to do. "Do you think we should accept the five hundred a year, Paul," said Sylvia, doubtfully; "it would put everything right, and so long as I am with you I don't care where we live." "If you leave the decision to me, darling," said Paul, "I think it will be best to refuse this offer. Something is wrong, or Mrs. Krill would not be so anxious to get you out of the country." "Oh, Paul, do you think she knows anything about the murder?" "No, dear. I don't think that. Mrs. Krill is far too clever a woman to put her neck in danger. But there may be a chance of her daughter losing the money. Sylvia," he asked, "you saw Maud Krill. How old would you take her to be?" "Oh, quite old, Paul," said Sylvia, decisively; "she dresses well and paints her face; but she's forty." "Oh, Sylvia, not so much as that." "Well, then, thirty and over," insisted Sylvia. "Debby thinks the same as I do." "Don't you think Debby's zeal may lead her to exaggerate?" "It doesn't lead me to exaggerate," said Sylvia, slightly offended; "and I have eyes in my head as well as Debby. That girl, or that woman, I should say, is over thirty, Paul." "In that case," said Beecot, his color rising, "I fancy I see the reason of Mrs. Krill's desire to get you out of the country. Maud," he added deliberately, "may not be your father's daughter after all." "What makes you think that?"