"They are already up, Miss." "Do they know?" "No, Miss. I just cast one glance, and then flew up to you, Miss." "Why not to Master Ferdinand?" "Because, Miss, we always look to you for orders," said the valet, respectfully; "and about the body, Miss?" "Don't touch it--don't touch anything," said Clarice, warningly. "It is necessary that the police should see the room as it is; and on your way to the Police Station, Chalks, send a telegram to Captain Ackworth at Gattlinsands." "And to Dr. Jerce, in London, Miss?" "There is no need; Dr. Jerce is coming down to-day, as usual." Clarice went to see Mrs. Rebson, and communicated the dreadful news of the crime. In a few minutes, the other servants were also informed, and everyone was horrified that such a tragedy had taken place in the quiet house. Mr. Horran had little enough to do with the domestics, seeing that he usually kept to his room; but he was sufficiently well liked to make one and all regret that he had come to so terrible an end. And Mrs. Rebson's expressions of sorrow were mingled with congratulatory comments on the triumph of The Domestic Prophet. "Didn't I tell you, miss!" she said, nodding convincedly; "didn't I tell you that trouble and death and disgrace would come; and you laughed at me--what do you think of the Prophet now?" Miss Baird shook her head, being too stunned by the catastrophe to express her wonder or her reasons for disbelief. She went to her own room to dress, and Mrs. Rebson sailed down to the kitchen with the Domestic Prophet in her hand, ready to partake of a cup of tea, and to expatiate on the wonderful manner in which the seer's chance shot had hit the bull's-eye of the future. Having completed a hasty toilet, Clarice took the key of Ferdy's bedroom from her toilette-table, and went to release him. As might be expected, seeing that the hour was early, Ferdy was still in bed, and fast asleep. When his sister shook him, he rolled over, and muttered something uncomplimentary. His debauch of the previous night had left him somewhat haggard; but the night's rest had, to a great extent, smoothed away the lines of dissipation from his handsome face. "Get up, Ferdy," said Clarice, harshly. "Uncle Henry is dead." The word--so terribly significant--penetrated even to Ferdy's shallow, sleepy brain, and he sat up with widely-opened, horrified brown eyes. "Uncle Henry!" he gasped. "Dead!" "Murdered!" whispered his sister, grey and shaken. "Wh-a-a-at!" Ferdy sprang out of bed, and his pink pyjamas formed a strange contrast to his white, horrified face. "Clarry, you--you--must--you must be mistaken!" "I have just seen his body, with a wound in the breast, and with the mark of the Purple Fern on the forehead." "Clarry!" Ferdinand caught her by the hand. "What I overheard yesterday in the drawing-room--what you and Ackworth and Jerce--?"