"More than uneasy," said the girl, with emphasis; "he was terrified. There is great mystery in all this, Harold. In some way my father is connected with this man. For all I know, he may be a relative. I am very ignorant of my family history." "H'm! Have you seen your father this morning?" "No. He did not come to breakfast, and I did not go to his study, knowing that he dislikes to be disturbed." "Well, we must go to his study now," said Harold, rising, "for I am sure that the man with the crape scarf killed Malet, and your father may be able to throw some light on the subject." "Harold, you don't think my father----" "Who can tell? Brenda, we must face the facts, and see him. In any case I am the only person who knows about this scrap of crape, and I shall keep the information to myself. Now, come along, dear, and let's hunt him up." When they reached the study they found it empty. On the table lay a note for Brenda in her father's handwriting. It informed her very curtly that he had gone up to London for the day and would return that same evening. Harold looked grave, and Brenda was perplexed. It was so unexpected. Mr. Scarse seemed to be doing all he could to heap suspicion on his own head. "Does he usually go off in this sudden fashion?" asked Captain Burton. "Yes and no. Sometimes he tells me, sometimes he leaves a note. After all, Harold, we may be altogether mistaken. Perhaps father knows nothing at all about it." "I hope so, Brenda. But from what you say he certainly knows this man, and it is strange there should be such a striking resemblance between them. The scrap of crape might easily have been torn off the scarf in the struggle." "But there was no struggle," said Brenda, eagerly. "I saw Mr. Malet for one moment when the lightning flashed; the next I heard a cry, and it was followed at once by a shot. There was no time for a struggle." "You heard the cry first, and then the shot?" "Yes. The shot must have killed the poor man at once. He did not cry again." Harold reflected. "I saw Dr. Lincoln this morning at the Manor," he said slowly. "He deduces from the blackened skin and singed hair that the shot must have been fired at close quarters. Now, if the murderer saw Malet by that lightning flash, and was close at hand, he no doubt sprang forward and clutched the poor devil's arm while he placed the muzzle of the weapon at his temple. In that case Malet would utter a cry and the next moment drop dead. In his agony he might have gripped at the crape scarf, and have torn off the piece I found clenched in his hand." "That is all purely hypothetical," said Brenda, fighting against her doubts.