About the stranger no word was said; and somewhat relieved in her mind, Brenda gave her orders for the day, and returned to the study. She sat down before the fire--which was lighted, as usual, in spite of the summer warmth--and gave herself up to thoughts of Harold. These were pleasant enough, but occasionally there would come the recollection of Van Zwieten and his calm insistence that she should be his wife. Then she shuddered, for the man fascinated her as a serpent fascinates a bird. There were moments when it came upon her that he might get his way in spite of her repulsion. Idly looking into the fire, she noticed a fine white ash under the grate, disposed in a regular line. At first she took no heed of it, but presently she became aware that this was no coal _débris_, and her eye travelled along the line until she found an unburnt piece of the material, the remainder of which was ash. Growing pale, she bent down and picked up a tiny piece of crape. Undoubtedly it was crape--there was enough saved from the burning to swear by. Brenda turned faint; from the long narrow outline of the white ash, from the scrap of material she held in her hand, it was certain that her father had flung a crape scarf under the grate, and had set fire to it. And she guessed that the scarf was the one worn by the stranger--the scarf from which the morsel in Harold's possession had been torn. Motionless and terrified, she pondered over the meaning of this destruction. Before she could come to any conclusion, there was a shadow thrown across the floor, and Brenda, her nerves shaken, jumped up with a slight scream to see Van Zwieten step into the room through the French window. He looked unusually well pleased with himself, and smiled blandly when he saw her. In fact, she detected an exulting expression in his blue eyes, which vaguely terrified her. With the instinct to conceal the discovery of the burnt scarf, she thrust the scrap into her pocket, and turned to welcome Van Zwieten with a smile. He looked at the fire, at her action, and seemed to connect the two. But he said nothing. No doubt he thought she had been about to burn something, and that he had interrupted her. "Aha, Miss Scarse," he said politely, "I have been walking in the orchards to have a look at the spot where I murdered that man." Brenda was annoyed at his satire, and rather foolishly showed her annoyance. "You should make allowance for my state of mind last night," she said irritably. "I spoke without thinking. Besides, I accused you of killing Harold, not poor Mr. Malet." "Quite so. But you might as well say I killed the one as the other. Pardon me, I will say no more. I have been to the place where the poor man was murdered, and I have made discoveries. Ah, you English, you have no eyes! Dozens of people have been round this morning, but they have seen nothing. I have seen much." "What have you seen--what have you discovered?" asked Brenda, anxiously.