“Accident! What accident could there have been? It is not possible. As to taking his own life, it is ridiculous! Why should he? He was too fond of it. Other men might have done that, but Stephen--never! No. He was murdered in that little plantation. I know the exact spot. I have been there. There was a struggle, and some one, better prepared than he, killed him. Perhaps he was followed here from London. It may be so. And yet, what was he doing here at all? That visit to Naselton Hall was not without some special purpose. I am sure of it. It was in connection with that purpose that he met with his death. He must have come to see some one. I want to know who it was. That is what I am going to find out--whom he came to see. You can blame me if you like. It may be unchristian, and you are a parson’s daughter. I do not care. I am going to find out.” I was silent. In a measure I was sorry for her, but down in my heart there lurked the seeds of a fear--nameless, but terribly potent--which put me out of all real sympathy with her. I began to wish that she would go away. I had answered her questions, and I had done all--more--than common courtesy demanded. Yet she sat there without any signs of moving. “I suppose,” she said at last, finding that I kept silent, “that it would not be of any use waiting to see your father. He has not been here any longer than you have. He would not be any more likely to know anything of the man Maltabar?” I shook my head decidedly. “He would be far less likely to know of him than I should,” I assured her. “He knows a good deal less of the people around here. His interests are altogether amongst the poorer classes. And he has left my sister and me to receive and pay all the calls. He is not at all fond of society.” “Philip Maltabar may be poor--now,” she said musingly. “He was never rich.” “If he were poor, he would not be living here,” I said. “The poor of whom I speak are the peasantry. It is not like a town, you know. Any man such as the Mr. Maltabar you speak of would be more than ever a marked figure living out of his class amongst villagers. In any case he would not be the sort of man whom my father would be likely to visit.” “I suppose you are right,” she answered, doubtfully. “At any rate--since I am here--there would be no harm in asking your father, would there?” “Certainly not,” I answered. “I daresay he will be here in a few moments.” Almost as I spoke he passed the window, and I heard his key in the front door. The girl, who had seen his shadow, looked up quickly. “Is that he?” she asked. I nodded. “Yes. You can ask him for yourself now.” “I should like to,” she answered. “I am so glad I stayed.” Some instinct prompted me to rise and leave the room. I went out and met my father in the hall. “Father,” I said, “there is a girl here who says she has identified that man. She is his sister. She is waiting to see you.”