open to them the way he did—why he never tried to dodge, but walked right down into the garden yesterday morning to be shot at.” Mr. Bunner ceased to speak, and for a little while both men sat with wrinkled brows, faint blue vapours rising from their cigars. Then Trent rose. “Your theory is quite fresh to me,” he said. “It’s perfectly rational, and it’s only a question of whether it fits all the facts. I mustn’t give away what I’m doing for my newspaper, Mr. Bunner, but I will say this: I have already satisfied myself that this was a premeditated crime, and an extraordinarily cunning one at that. I’m deeply obliged to you. We must talk it over again.” He looked at his watch. “I have been expected for some time by my friend. Shall we make a move?” “Two o’clock,” said Mr. Bunner, consulting his own, as he got up from the foot-board. “Ten a.m. in little old New York. You don’t know Wall Street, Mr. Trent. Let’s you and I hope we never see anything nearer hell than what’s loose in the Street this minute.” Chapter VII. The Lady in Black The sea broke raging upon the foot of the cliff under a good breeze; the sun flooded the land with life from a dappled blue sky. In this perfection of English weather Trent, who had slept ill, went down before eight o’clock to a pool among the rocks, the direction of which had been given him, and dived deep into clear water. Between vast grey boulders he swam out to the tossing open, forced himself some little way against a coast-wise current, and then returned to his refuge battered and refreshed. Ten minutes later he was scaling the cliff again, and his mind, cleared for the moment of a heavy disgust for the affair he had in hand, was turning over his plans for the morning. It was the day of the inquest, the day after his arrival in the place. He had carried matters not much further after parting with the American on the road to Bishopsbridge. In the afternoon he had walked from the inn into the town, accompanied by Mr. Cupples, and had there made certain purchases at a chemist’s shop, conferred privately for some time with a photographer, sent off a reply-paid telegram, and made an enquiry at the telephone exchange. He had said but little about the case to Mr. Cupples, who seemed incurious on his side, and nothing at all about the results of his investigation or the steps he was about to take. After their return from Bishopsbridge, Trent had written a long dispatch for the _Record_ and sent it to be telegraphed by the proud hands of the paper’s local representative. He had afterwards dined with Mr. Cupples, and had spent the rest of the evening in meditative solitude on the veranda.