The longer John Graham brooded over this tragedy to-night, the fiercer grew his hatred of Butler. Something had happened in the hall the day of his mother’s death which had remained a mystery. Aunt Julie Ann, who stayed with the new master of the old house as his cook, had told John that she had heard high words between Butler and the Major, and when she was called, found her mistress dead on the floor and his father lying moaning beside her. John had always held the theory that Butler had used rough or insulting language to his mother; his father had resented it, and the Judge, taking advantage of his weakness from a long illness of typhoid fever, had struck the Major a cowardly blow. The shock had killed his mother, and rendered his father insane. Experts had examined the Major’s head, however, and failed to discover any pressure of the skull on the brain. Yet John held this theory as firmly as if he had been present and witnessed the tragedy. He rose from his seat, walked to the front entrance of the house and looked at his watch by the bright light which streamed through the leaded glass beside the door. He had yet ten minutes. He retraced in part his steps, followed the narrow path to the foot of the hill and entered the vault. Feeling his way along the sides to the arched niche in the rear, he pressed his shoulder heavily against the right side of the smooth stone wall forming the back of the niche, and felt it instantly give. The rush of damp air told him that the old underground way was open. He smiled with satisfaction. He knew that this passage led through a blind wall in the basement of the house and up into the great hall by a panel in the oak wainscoting under the stairs. “It’s easy! My men could seize him without a struggle!” he said grimly, slowly allowing the door to settle back of its own weight into place again. He stood for a moment in the darkness of the vault, clinched his fist at last and exclaimed: “I’ll do it!--but I prefer the front door. I’ll try that first.” A few minutes later he had reached the house, knocked loudly and stood waiting an answer. Aunt Julie Ann’s black face smiled him a hearty welcome. “Come right in, Marse John, honey, an’ make yo’ sef at home. I sho is glad ter see ye!” John walked deliberately across the hall and sat down on the old mahogany davenport under the stairs behind which he knew the secret door opened. He reached back carelessly, played with the spring and felt it yield. Aunt Julie Ann’s huge form waddled after him. “Fore I pass de time er day I mus’ tell ye Marse John, what de Jedge say. He give ‘structions ter all de folks dat ef any Graham put his foot ter dat do’ ter tell ‘im he don’t low you inside dis yard! I tell ye, so’s I kin tell him I tell ye--Cose, I can’t help it dat you brush right pass me an’ come in, can I, honey?” “Of course not, Aunt Julie Ann.”