"Miss! Miss!" he stammered, and then fled down the stairs, unable to get out his words. Sick with fear, Clarice followed in her disordered attire, and came to Horran's room. On the bed lay the body of the sick man, with a cruel wound in his breast. He was stiff and cold, dead--murdered--and on his chill forehead was the infernal mark of the Purple Fern. CHAPTER IX THE INQUEST Mr. Horran was as dead as a door nail. There could be no doubt about that. While Chalks shivered and wrung his hands in the middle of the room, demoralised and helpless, Clarice bent over the bed, in a dazed manner. She could scarcely grasp the situation, notwithstanding that it had been foreshadowed--as it were--by the mystery of the grey man. Without doubt, he was the assassin. The sinister omen of the Purple Fern had been fulfilled. An eighth victim had been struck down, and his forehead bore the infernal trade-mark of the triumvirate, which no longer existed. One of the members had been hanged; another had died from natural causes; but the survivor, Alfred Osip, of Rough Lane, Stepney, had accomplished alone the accursed work which the three had undertaken. "I was sent away," explained the valet, with chattering teeth, "by master at eleven o'clock, as he would not let me sit up with him. I came into the room, as usual, about seven o'clock--a few minutes ago, Miss--to see if master wanted me. Then I saw that"--he pointed to the bed--"and this!"--he picked up an assegai, which was lying near the escritoire. "Look at the blood on it, Miss, and look at the cruel wound in master's breast." The bedclothes were perfectly smooth, and turned down to the dead man's waist in an orderly manner. The jacket of his pyjamas was open, and the breast revealed a ragged wound, upon which the blood had congealed. Apparently, the assassin, Osip, had found the unfortunate man sound asleep, and, having taken the assegai from the collection of barbaric weapons on the wall, had turned down the clothes to stab his victim with a surer aim. There was no sign of a struggle, and even Clarice's untutored senses told her that Henry Horran had been foully murdered in his sleep. But how had the assassin entered? The window--she wheeled round with a set face, and stretched out an arm. "The window is open," she said, in a dry cracking voice. "Yes, Miss," whispered Chalks. "Dr. Wentworth saw master, after Dr. Jerce went away, and opened the window, as usual." "You fool!" cried Clarice, furiously, and recollecting Jerce's precautions, in the face of the warning, "you have made two mistakes. You should have obeyed Dr. Jerce in sitting up all night with Mr. Horran; and the window, according to his directions, should have been closed."