“Careful man. What’s your motto? Plenty of rope, eh? I’ve taken a leaf out of your book. I’ve given M. Lemoine plenty of rope. I’ve not denied his accusations. But, all the same, I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed. You see I always believe in having something up one’s sleeve. Anticipating that some little unpleasantness might arise here, I took the precaution to bring a trump card along with me. It—or rather he—is upstairs.” “Upstairs?” said Lord Caterham, very interested. “Yes, he’s been having rather a trying time of it lately, poor fellow. Got a nasty bump on the head from some one. I’ve been looking after him.” Suddenly the deep voice of Mr. Isaacstein broke in: “Can we guess who he is?” “If you like,” said Anthony, “but——” Lemoine interrupted with sudden ferocity: “All this is foolery. You think to outwit me yet again. It may be true what you say—that you were not in America. You are too clever to say it if it were not true. But there is something else. Murder! Yes, murder. The murder of Prince Michael. He interfered with you that night as you were looking for the jewel.” “Lemoine, have you ever known King Victor to do murder?” Anthony’s voice rang out sharply. “You know as well—better than I do, that he has never shed blood.” “Who else but you could have murdered him?” cried Lemoine. “Tell me that!” The last word died on his lips, as a shrill whistle sounded from the terrace outside. Anthony sprang up, all his assumed nonchalance laid aside. “You ask me who murdered Prince Michael?” he cried. “I won’t tell you—I’ll _show_ you. That whistle was the signal I’ve been waiting for. The murderer of Prince Michael is in the library now.” He sprang out through the window, and the others followed him as he led the way round the terrace, until they came to the library window. He pushed the window, and it yielded to his touch. Very softly he held aside the thick velvet curtain, so that they could look into the room. Standing by the bookcase was a dark figure, hurriedly pulling out and replacing volumes, so absorbed in the task that no outside sound was heeded. And then, as they stood watching, trying to recognize the figure that was vaguely silhouetted against the light of the electric torch it carried, some one sprang past them with a sound like the roar of a wild beast. The torch fell to the ground, was extinguished, and the sounds of a terrific struggle filled the room. Lord Caterham groped his way to the lights and switched them on. Two figures were swaying together. And as they looked the end came. The short sharp crack of a pistol shot, and the smaller figure crumpled up and fell. The other figure turned and faced them—it was Boris, his eyes alight with rage. “She killed my Master,” he growled. “Now she tries to shoot me. I would have taken the pistol from her and shot her, but it went off in the struggle. St. Michael directed it. The evil woman is dead.” “A woman?” cried George Lomax.