George knew the room well. It had been used by his grandfather as a breakfast-room, and many a meal had he enjoyed at that very table. As the furniture had been sold to Lord Derrington, together with the house, the table was the very article of furniture at which Mrs. Jersey had been stabbed when seated. Brendon looked from the table to the door, and wondered if the assassin had entered stealthily, with a bared weapon, and had stabbed the wretched woman before she had time to turn her head. But on second thoughts he was inclined to think that the assassin had been in friendly conversation with Mrs. Jersey before inflicting the fatal stroke. Even in the short distance between table and door Mrs. Jersey would have had time to spring to her feet and give the alarm. "No," thought George, as he seated himself, "what I said to Train is correct. The assassin engaged Mrs. Jersey in friendly conversation, and then watched for an opportunity to strike from behind." He would have continued trying to puzzle out the circumstances of the crime but that Miss Bull entered, accompanied by Margery. The little old maid looked whiter and more haggard than ever, but her eyes gleamed brightly, and she seemed to be in perfect health. Margery, now being the nominal head of the house, appeared more important, but she kept her eyes on Miss Bull's face, and in all things took her orders from this superior being. Miss Bull was a despot, although kindly enough, and Margery was her slave. "How are you, Mr. Brendon?" said Miss Bull, smiling in her prim way, but without offering her hand. "I did not expect to see you again." "Why not?" asked George, quickly. Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders and fastened her beady eyes on his face. "Many of the boarders left on account of Madame's murder, so I thought you had done the same." "I was only a visitor, Miss Bull. Had I been a boarder I should not have left. The murder did not scare me." "No," replied Miss Bull, indifferently, "I don't suppose it did. I only talked for the sake of talking." Brendon knew this was untrue, as Miss Bull was not a woman to waste words. Besides, the old maid's eyes were fixed with a certain amount of curiosity on his face, and he could not conceive why this was so. He was rather embarrassed how to begin the conversation, especially as Margery was present. Something of this showed itself in his manner, for Miss Bull drew Margery's hand within her own and nodded affably. "Miss Watson is the head of the house," she said. "Do you come to see her or me, Mr. Brendon?" "I come to see you," said George, hoping she would send the inconvenient third away. But she did nothing of the sort. "In that case Margery can stop as my friend, Mr. Brendon. Anything you say before her will go no further. She keeps my secrets." "Always! always!" cried Margery, her eyes on the old maid. "I would rather die than reveal your secrets, Miss Bull."