"Cheyne does not to my knowledge begin with a 'B'," threw in Cleek, quietly. "The revolver bears your initial and a jury is a difficult thing to convince when facts are strong." "Stuff and nonsense!" spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. "You can have me arrested straight away, if you like, but whatever happens, I mean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night. You know where to find me when you want me." Turning angrily on his heel, he walked out, leaving Cleek smiling quietly to himself and rather liking this young spit-fire for the way in which he had risen to his fly. "So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver-shot, does he? Now did he administer that prussic acid, or did he not?" was the next thought that passed through his mind. He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station, where he hoped to meet Mr. Narkom. It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he could see a little group of people advancing toward him, in the first and foremost of whom he recognized Ailsa. She had been nearly heart-broken over the catastrophe which had overtaken the girl in whom she had hoped to have found a life-long friend, and her first act had been to visit Lady Brenton. She had done her best to raise Edgar's mother from the fit of deep depression which seemed to have settled over her like a cloud. At that lady's request, Ailsa had consented to stay at the Towers, and accordingly had seen but little of the man to whom she instinctively turned for help and guidance. Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her little start and the rose-red colour which suffused her face caused Lady Brenton, a woman still in the early forties, to look quickly in the same direction. "My dear, is this another reporter?" she inquired, anxiously. She had an inveterate horror of the press at all times, and since she had seen the recent papers carrying such head-lines as "The Cheyne Court Affair--Further Developments--Murder in High Life" and similar personalities, she lived in perpetual dread of being pounced upon and interviewed. "No, dear," responded Ailsa with a happy little laugh, "this is not a reporter, but a dear old friend of mine, Mr. George Headland. He was an old friend, too, of my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before his second marriage. I think he will be the only man who can explain this mysterious catastrophe. I wonder if you would think it a liberty if I asked to be allowed to introduce him to you?" "Far from it, Ailsa," answered Lady Brenton, impetuously. "I wish I could persuade him to visit us, it might cheer us up. Not that I want to be cheered exactly, but the thought of that child and the sight of poor Edgar's face almost breaks my heart. And I am so tired this morning----" "I daresay you are," put in Ailsa, quietly. "You did not sleep well, did you?" Lady Brenton looked at her with a little angry flush.