"You see, Mr. Darrel, I was right," he said, rubbing his hands. "So far as Manuel is concerned, you are, Torry; but I believe that the society had the murders committed. Manuel may not have done the deeds himself, but he instructed the murderers." "Nonsense! I believe jealousy was the motive of the double crime." "And I believe the motive was robbery! Grent stole the ten thousand, and was murdered for the sake of it." "In that case, the society, as represented by Manuel, could not have killed him, as he did not know that the money was lost." Darrel groaned. "You are beginning the argument all over again, my good fellow," he said, stopping his ears. "For my part, I do not believe that the truth will ever be discovered." And, indeed, it seemed as though Frank spoke with the spirit of prophecy; for three or four days passed without anything of importance being discovered. Torry tried in vain to ascertain the whereabouts of the stolen notes, the numbers of which he obtained from Manuel. Not a single one could be traced; so it seemed as though the assassin, fearful of the outcry which had followed the committal of the double crime, had hesitated to put them into circulation. At the time of the inquest the robbery had not been mentioned, as the loss had not been discovered until afterwards. Torry therefore carefully kept the fact of the theft from the reporters. "It is foolish to put everything in the newspapers," said he shrewdly, "as details of our doings only reveal our plans, and when in print may put the assassin on his guard. He would learn our hand, but we should not know his. For my part, in these sorts of cases I would not allow a single detail to be published until the criminal had been secured. The Press oftentimes does more harm than good." While Torry was thus fuming and fretting, and wondering what step it would be best to take a lady called to see him at his private office. She was tall and majestic, dressed in black and deeply veiled, and refused to give her name save to the detective himself. When alone with him in his room, the unknown raised her veil and revealed the countenance of an elderly woman; she was long past her youth, but looked still beautiful, and there was a fire in her large dark eyes which shewed that she possessed a haughty and fiery spirit. "I am Mrs. Grent," she said in a low voice, with a strong foreign accent. "Donna Inez?" said Torry, thrown off his guard by the announcement. The lady bowed. "I look for you at the police-yard," she said quickly, "but you not there; they tell me you here, so I come. Have you in your hands that assassin?" "No, ma'am, not yet. I regret to say that we cannot find him." "Why you say _him?_" demanded Donna Inez abruptly. "Why!" echoed Mr. Torry in astonishment, "because I believe the assassin to be a man." "It is wrong, sir. A woman killed my husband." "A woman?" "Yes, one known. Miss Lydia Hargone! Ah! the base wretch!"