Glancing hastily round the room to make sure he was alone, he took a kriss from the wall on the other side so that the pattern was now equalised, and trusted to this fact to hide his abstraction of the weapon. Then he took some old letters out of his pocket, and tearing them up into strips carefully swathed the blade of the kriss to prevent possible accidents, and slipped the parcel into his breast pocket. "I'll go and see a doctor," he muttered to himself as he buttoned his coat, "and try the effect of this on a dog; if the symptoms of death are the same, that will be proof conclusive that the missing dagger was used to commit the crime. Once I establish that, I'll soon find out the guilty party, as it must have been some one in this house--especially as Lydia Fenny was a servant here." He walked back again to his chair and had just sat down when the door opened and a woman entered. Not at all pretty, medium height, dark hair and eyes, and a sharp, active-looking face, which, however, was disfigured by marks of the small pox. She was dressed in a well-made dark costume and wore a knot of crimson ribbon round her throat. Dowker surveyed this lady carefully and instantly came to the conclusion that this was a fellow-servant of Lydia Fenny--certainly not Miss Sarschine. "Hang it," muttered Dowker, "he wouldn't make love to that!" The newcomer advanced as Dowker arose to his feet. "You want to see Miss Sarschine?" she asked, looking at the detective. "Yes; have I the pleasure----?" "No; I am not Miss Sarschine, but I can let her have any message you wish delivered." "Cannot I see the lady herself?" "You cannot; she is out of town." "Oh!" Dowker looked rather blank. This then was the reason Miss Sarschine did not come forward to identify the body. "From whom is your message?" asked the woman. "From--from--Lord Calliston," said Dowker, in a hesitating manner. "That's impossible," replied the woman curtly. "Why?" "Because Lord Calliston is away yachting, and Miss Sarschine is with him." "Oh, indeed!" Dowker was beginning to feel rather nonplussed as he was now at a loss for an excuse for his presence, so he tried another plan. "Do you read the papers?" he asked sharply. "Sometimes; not often," said the woman, somewhat taken aback. "Why do you ask?" "I have particular reasons for the question." "I am not bound to answer your question. May I ask your name?" "Dowker--detective." The woman started at this and looked a little curiously at him. "What do you want to know?" "Are any of the servants of this house missing?" "No." "Dear me! have any been lately dismissed?" "No; do you allude to any particular servant?" "Yes; Lydia Fenny." The woman started again. "What about her?" "She is dead. If you had read the papers you would have noticed the Jermyn Street tragedy. She is the victim." "There is some mistake," said the woman, quietly.