"But it couldn't have been a burglar," said the vicar, "for what object could a thief have for destroying a portrait?" "Destroying what portrait?" inquired Cyril. "Oh, didn't you know that her ladyship's portrait was found cut into shreds?" said the coroner. "And a pair of Lady Wilmersley's scissors lay on the floor in front of it," added the vicar. "Let me see it," cried Cyril. Going to a corner of the room the vicar pulled aside a velvet curtain behind which hung the wreck of a picture. The canvas was slashed from top to bottom. No trace of the face was left; only a small piece of fair hair was still distinguishable. Cyril grasped Twombley's arm. Fair! And his mysterious _protégée_ was dark! "What--what was the colour of Lady Wilmersley's hair?" He almost stuttered with excitement. "A very pale yellow," replied the coroner. "Why do you ask?" inquired the detective. For the convenience of my readers I give a diagram of Lord and Lady Wilmersley's apartments. [Illustration: X. Spot where Lord Wilmersley's body was found. 1. Doors locked and barred. 2. Windows all barred. 3. Window without bars found open. 4. Library table. 5. Lady Wilmersley's portrait. 6. Doors leading to swimming-pool. 7. Doors leading from hall. 8. Divans.] CHAPTER V THE DETECTIVE DETECTS "A very pale yellow!" Cyril was dumb-founded. Every fact, every inference had seemed to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that his _protégée_ and Lady Wilmersley were one and the same person. Was it possible that she could have worn a wig? No, for he remembered that in lifting her veil, he had inadvertently pulled her hair a little and had admired the way it grew on her temples. "Why does the colour of her ladyship's hair interest you, my lord?" again inquired the detective. Cyril blushed with confusion as he realised that all three men were watching him with evident astonishment. What a fool he was not to have been able to conceal his surprise! What answer could he give them? However, as it was not his cousin's murderess he was hiding, he felt he had nothing to fear from the detective, so ignoring him he turned to Mr. Twombley and said with a forced laugh: "I must be losing my mind, for I distinctly remember hearing a friend of mine rave about Lady Wilmersley's dark beauty." Rather a fishy explanation, thought poor Cyril; but really his powers of invention were exhausted. Would it satisfy them? He glanced sharply at the detective. The latter was no longer looking at him, but was contemplating his watch-chain with absorbed attention. "Hah, hah! Rather a joke, what?" laughed Twombley. "Never had seen her, I suppose; no one ever did, you know, except out driving."