"His brother! How can _you_ know what his brother knew?" "Mr. Hilton Fenley saw Miss Manning and myself, and mistook me for----" "Saw you? When?" "About five minutes ago, on the other side of the wood." "What did he say? Quick!" "He told us that the shooting was the outcome of your efforts to catch some man hiding among the trees." "Of my efforts?" "He didn't mention you by name. The words he used were 'the police.' He was taking part in the chase, I suppose." "Which way did he go?" Trenholme hesitated. Not only was he not quite conversant with the locality, but his shrewd wits had reached a certain conclusion, and he did not wish to be too outspoken before Sylvia. Surely she had borne sufficient for one day. Thereupon the girl herself broke in. "Hilton went toward the cedars. He may be making for the Easton gate. Have you caught any man?" "Not yet, Miss Manning," said Winter, assuming control of the situation with a firm hand. "I advise you to go straight to your room, and not stir out again tonight. There will be no more disturbance--I promise you that." Even the chief of the C. I. D. can err when he prophesies. At that instant the two lines of trees lost their impenetrable blackness. Their foliage sprang into red-tinted life as if the witches of the Brocken had chosen a new meeting-place, and a crackling, tearing sound rent the air. "Oh!" screamed Sylvia, who chanced to be facing the mansion. "The house is on fire!" They were standing in a group, almost where Police Constable Farrow had stood at ten minutes past ten the previous morning. Hence they were aware of this addition to the day's horrors before the house servants, who, headed by Tomlinson, were gathered on and near the flight of steps at the entrance. Every female servant in the establishment was there as well, not outside the door, but quaking in the hall. MacBain was the first among the men to realize what was happening. He caught the loud clang of an automatic fire alarm ringing in his room, and at once called the house fire brigade to run out the hose while he dashed upstairs into the north corridor, from which a volume of smoke was pouring. "Good Heavens!" he cried, on reaching the cross gallery. "It's in Mr. Fenley's rooms!" Mr. Fenley's rooms! No need to tell the horrified staff which rooms he meant. A fire was raging in the private suite of the dead man!