By this time they had arrived at the Common. Here Jarman turned down a shady lane, and passed through an arcade of chestnut trees. At the end of this was an open space surrounded by trees, and amidst these a thatched cottage that might have come out of a fairy-tale from the quaint look of it. The walls were whitewashed, the windows of lattice work, and in front of it flourished a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, evidently the delight of those who had planted them. A white paling fence separated it from the lane, and over the gate of this leant an elderly lady. Frank recognised Mrs. Perth. She was a delicate old dame, with an ivory-hued face, smooth white hair, and dressed severely in black from head to foot, even to a black straw hat. She beckoned to Eustace. He knew well enough why she was in mourning, but for obvious reasons asked questions. "Why are you in black, Mrs. Perth? No bad news, I hope?" "I don't know if you call it bad or good," she replied, with some asperity. "Walter has been murdered." Frank, in the background, winced, and dug his cane into the turf. But Eustace took the intelligence with well-feigned surprise. "Murdered! Mrs. Perth! How terrible. Who murdered him?" "Ah! that's what has to be discovered. Mildred received a letter this morning, telling her that Walter had been found last night shot through the head in his rooms in Sand Lane. Also he was stabbed in the breast--right through the heart." "Stabbed also," began Frank, incautiously, when Jarman interposed. "My new secretary, Mrs. Perth--Mr. Desmond O'Neil. He comes from Ireland." "I am happy to meet you, Mr. O'Neil," said the old lady in a most stately manner. "What was it you said?" "I was--was--only expressing--my--my surprise," stammered Frank. "That the man should be stabbed as well as shot," put in Jarman, ever watchful. "I don't wonder at it. Wasn't one mode of death enough?" "Apparently not. The shot must have killed him, too, as it was under the right eye!" "The _right_ eye," objected Frank, and it was on the tip of his tongue to correct the speech, but he swallowed his words. "How horrible!" "You may well say that. We don't know all the details yet," said Mrs. Perth, addressing Eustace, "and Mildred has gone up to town to hear what she can. The police are in possession of the house. Let us hope the assassin will be found." "Let us hope so," muttered Frank, and then aimlessly strolled away to a little distance to overcome a qualmish feeling. "He's rather a nervous chap," explained Jarman to Mrs. Perth; "bad health and weak eyes." "He does indeed look pale, Mr. Jarman. I fear I'm not looking well myself this morning." "No wonder," said Eustace. "The shock--" "Well, it was a shock to us both," interrupted Mrs. Perth, speaking low. "But to tell you the truth, Mr. Jarman, Mildred is more grieved than I am. I never liked Walter. Heaven forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but--well, Mr. Jarman, you know what a bad man he was."