At this moment there was heard the sound of foot-steps coming rapidly nearer. Scarse, with an angry and terrified expression, appeared on the scene. Close behind him came Van Zwieten, who seemed, as ever, quite undisturbed and master of himself. Brenda caught sight of him, and darting forward, seized the man by the lapels of his coat. "Harold!" she cried, "you have killed my Harold!" "Harold--Burton!" replied Scarse, aghast. "Is he dead?" "Dead--murdered! Oh, I am certain of it. And you killed him. You! You!" Van Zwieten said not a word, but remained perfectly calm. He saw that the girl was beside herself with terror and grief, that she knew not what she was saying or doing. Without a word he picked her up in his strong arms and carried her moaning and weeping into the drawing-room. Scarse rated Mrs. Daw and Tilda sharply for so losing their heads, and followed the Dutchman. But before leaving the kitchen he was careful to take with him the key of the back door. "No one leaves this house to-night," he said sharply "I must inquire into this. Give me that spirit-stand. Now go to bed, you fools." "Bed!" wailed Mrs. Daw, as her master left the room. "Lor', I'll never sleep again--not for weeks any'ow. I daren't lie alone. Oh, what an 'orful night. I'll give notice to-morrow, that for sure!" "So'll I," squeaked Tilda. With this the two went shivering to a common couch, full of prayers and terror, and prepared to die--if die they must--in company. In the drawing-room Brenda was huddled up in a chair, terrified out of her wits. Van Zwieten, calm and masterful, stood before the fireplace with his big hands clasped loosely before him. His trousers were turned up, his boots were soaking, and there were raindrops in his curly hair. For the rest he was dry, and the storm had not made the slightest impress on his strong nerves. When Scarse entered he threw a steely and inquisitive glance at the old man, who winced and shrank back with an expression of fear on his face. Van Zwieten, ever on the alert for the signs of a guilty conscience, noted this with secret satisfaction. "Now then, Brenda," said her father, recovering at last some of his presence of mind, "what is all this about? You say that Burton is dead--that Mr. van Zwieten killed him." "Ah!" interposed the Dutchman, stroking his beard, "I should like to know how I managed that." "You hated him!" cried Brenda, sitting up straight with a sudden access of vigor. "You told me so to-night at dinner!" "Pardon me; I said I did not like Captain Burton. But as to hating him--" Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders; "that is an extreme word to use. But even if I did hate him you can hardly deduce from that that I should kill him!" "He was shot, shot in the orchards, not far from the Manor gates. You were out----" "That is scant evidence to justify a charge of murder," interposed Scarce, angrily. "You are unstrung and hysterical, Brenda. How did you come to be out yourself in such a storm?"