In the train she found a travelling companion whom she did not expect--none other than Harold's brother. Wilfred's foot was now quite well, and he looked better in health than when Brenda had last seen him. He joined her at Langton Junction, and they travelled up in the same carriage, which they were fortunate enough to have to themselves. She was pleased that it was so, for she wanted to talk confidentially with Wilfred. They were the best of good friends. "I am so glad your foot is all right again, Wilfred," she said cheerfully. "It is such a painful thing--a sprain." "Yet for all that I am not sorry I sprained it," said Wilfred, turning his thin white face toward the girl. "Not sorry! What do you mean?" "Oh, it's an ill wind--you know." "Yes, I suppose it is. But it's difficult to see what sort of 'good' one can look for from a sprained ankle!" "Well, in this instance I fancy it did me a good turn. You see it rendered me physically helpless for the time being." "My dear Wilfred--I confess you puzzle me." "Do I? Well, I'll tell you what I mean. The night, almost the hour, I sprained my ankle, poor Malet was shot. So no one can possibly accuse _me_ of having shot him!" "But who _would_ dare to accuse you of such a thing?" "Oh, I don't know; that fool of an inspector was quite prepared to fix his beastly suspicions on Harold--told me as much." "I know; but then you see Harold and Mr. Malet quarrelled. That was the reason Mr. Woke was suspicious. But of course Harold laughed at the idea." "I should think so. I confess the whole thing licks me. I can't imagine who can have done it." "No one knows. Lady Jenny says no one ever will know!" "I suppose not. It seems to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Do you know, Brenda, I _have_ had my suspicions!" A cold hand clutched the girl's heart. She immediately thought of her father. "Have you?" she faltered. "Of whom?" "Well, I wouldn't tell every one, as I have really no sort of basis for them. They are the purest suspicions. But I suspect that big Dutchman who was staying at your place." "Van Zwieten!" Brenda's mind ran over the events of that terrible night. The Dutchman had been out; he had come in after her. But again her father had told the servants that Van Zwieten was in the study with him--a distinct falsehood. Whichever way she looked at it, her father seemed to be mixed up in the matter. "Yet what possible motive could Van Zwieten have had to impel him to such a crime?" she asked Wilfred. "It might be a political crime," said the young man, his face lighting up as it invariably did when he talked politics. "Gilbert was an Imperialist--always preaching and writing against the Boers. Van Zwieten is Dutch, and is going out to an appointment at Pretoria; also he is an intimate friend of Dr. Leyds. He might have wished to get Gilbert out of the way because he was dangerous to his schemes." "Surely he wouldn't have gone the length of murder for such a reason."