"Well, you see, Wilmersley has a bee in his bonnet. His mother was a Spanish ballet dancer whom my uncle married when he was a mere boy. She was a dreadful old creature. I remember her distinctly, a great, fat woman with a big, white face and enormous, glassy, black eyes. I was awfully afraid of her. She died when Wilmersley was about twenty and my uncle followed her a few months later. His funeral was hardly over when my cousin left Geralton and nothing definite was heard of him for almost twenty-five years. He was supposed to be travelling in the far East, and from time to time some pretty queer rumours drifted back about him. Whether they were true or not, I have never known. One day he returned to Geralton as unexpectedly as he had left it. He sent for me at once. He has immense family pride--the ballet dancer, I fancy, rankles--and having decided for some reason or other not to marry, he wished his heir to cut a dash. He offered me an allowance of £4000 a year, told me to marry as soon as possible, and sent me home." "Well, that was pretty decent of him. You don't seem very grateful." "I can't bear him. He's a most repulsive-looking chap, a thorough Spaniard, with no trace of his father's blood that I can see. And as I married soon afterwards and my marriage was not to his liking, he stopped my allowance and swore I should never succeed him if he could help it. So you see I haven't much reason to be grateful to him." "Beastly shame! He married Miss Mannering, Lady Upton's granddaughter, didn't he?" "Yes." "She is a little queer, I believe." "Really? I didn't know that. I have never seen her, but I hear she is very pretty. Well, I'm sorry for her, brought up by that old curmudgeon of a grandmother and married out of the schoolroom to Wilmersley. She has never had much of a chance, has she?" "There are no children as yet?" "No." "So that now that your father is dead, you are the immediate heir." The door was flung open and Peter rushed into the room brandishing a paper. "Oh, sir, it's come at last! I always felt it would!" He stuttered with excitement. "What on earth is the matter with you?" "I beg pardon, sir, but I am that hovercome! I heard them crying 'hextras,' so I went out and gets one--just casual-like. Little did I think what would be in it--and there it was." "There was what?" Both men spoke at once, leaning eagerly forward. "That Lord Wilmersley is dead; and so, my lord, I wish you much joy and a long life." "This is very sudden," gasped Crichton. "I hadn't heard he was ill. What did he die of?" "'E was murdered, my lord." CHAPTER IV ON THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY "When, how, who did it?" cried Cyril incoherently. "Give me the paper." "Murder of Lord Wilmersley--disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he read. "Disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he repeated, as the paper fell from his limp hand.