"No! no! no!" murmured Beatrice with rising inflection, and speaking aloud in her agitation; "it is untrue. Vivian would never commit so cowardly a deed as to kill an old man of eighty, however much he may have hated him. I shall hide the handkerchief--but where? The police are sure to search the place, and--and----" A sudden thought struck her. "I'll keep it in my pocket," she decided, and thrust it, neatly folded up, to the very bottom of that receptacle. Later, she intended to cautiously question Paslow, and learn if he had been to The Camp on that night. But the conversation would be between their two selves. She would tell no one else of the handkerchief she had picked up, not even Durban, faithful servant though he was. It was at this moment, and as though in response to her mental mention of his name, that Durban appeared. He looked much shaken by the tragedy, and was green with scarcely concealed fright. Beatrice eyed him with astonishment, as she had never deemed him to be much attached to the old tyrant who had gone so violently to his long rest. Durban evaded her searching glance, which was perhaps fortunate, as the girl herself did not wish her own countenance to be too closely scrutinised. "I've shut it up in the counting-house," said Durban, his eyes on the ground, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "The police will be here soon. Mrs. Snow will tell them; she'll be glad of the chance." "Why? Did she know my--the late Mr. Alpenny?" "That's right, missy." Durban raised his eyes with approval, and dropped them again. "Never call him your father." "He was my stepfather," Beatrice reminded him. "Ah--hum--yes," gurgled Durban. "Yes, missy, Mrs. Snow knew master before you were born--at Convent Grange." "I heard her say that Colonel Hall's throat had also been cut." Durban shuddered, and leaned against the door. "Yes," he whispered faintly, "that was so, missy." "Mr. Alpenny's throat has been cut in the same way." Durban half smiled, but his expression was wry and twisted. "There is only one way to cut a throat, missy." "Ugh!" Beatrice turned pale, and threw up her hand. "Don't!" "It is a nasty subject, missy. I--I'm sorry for the master. And yet," he added, half to himself; "if ever a man deserved what he got, master was that man." "What do you mean?" asked Beatrice, taking a step towards him. "Master had many enemies," went on Durban, again casting his eyes on the ground; "a money-lender always has." "Then you know----" "I know nothing," snapped the man angrily, and wiping his swarthy face with a duster. "Master sent me to London last night, as you knew, missy. I only came down by the morning train, and walked here, in time to find you with Mrs. Snow. What did she want?" Beatrice smiled faintly in her turn. "Subscriptions for the church spire, which was blown down last night." "Oh! That was the excuse?" "Excuse for what, Durban?"