And now dinner was over, and she was still as far as ever from getting the answer to her question. Why had Hubert done it? All through the afternoon he had been uniformly charming; he couldn’t suspect anything; he couldn’t. He was talking now about the tower—a strange architectural freak which stuck up from one corner of the house like a funnel on a locomotive. “It’s an old house,” he was saying in his cultured, rather gentle voice. “And I can’t quite make out who erected that tower originally. It was put up after the house itself was built, but for what purpose is a little obscure. It certainly can’t have been entirely erected as a tomb.” “A tomb!” echoed Denver in surprise. “In what way a tomb?” “Has my wife never told you the story?” said Garling. “It’s one of the stock things about this place. I can just remember when my father made the discovery. The tower, of course, is hollow, and it had been used as a sort of box-room. There were some rough steps going spirally round it which finished abruptly in the brick roof. And one day it struck my father that it was somewhat peculiar to make steps right up to a ceiling, and he took some measurements. And he found that there was a space of about ten feet to be accounted for at the top of the tower. You can understand, of course, that it was very rare indeed that any one went there, or such an obvious thing would have been discovered before. So he got in some workmen and proceeded to remove the bricks from the roof. And the mystery was solved. The steps which apparently disappeared into the ceiling were now found to communicate with a room. And in that room the remnants of two skeletons were found. They had been there for at least a hundred years, but there was enough to prove that one had been a man and the other a woman.” “How very interesting!” said Denver. “Did your father ever find out what had happened?”