He put his hand absently on the rough black head of the Aberdeen, who had cowered close to his leg, still faintly whimpering.

"Will they exhume Sir Charles's body, sir, do you think?"

"What would be the use? There would be nothing gained by that. My father died of a well-known disease; as far as anyone could tell it was a perfectly natural death. So would I have died a so-called natural death if the doctor had succeeded in his plan against me. That was the infernal cleverness of his scheme. Of course in the case of Miss Rowe's detention it is a different matter, but even there we may not be able to prove anything conclusive. We are up against an extraordinarily clever man. Still, I don't yet know the extent of our evidence against him; it may be very strong indeed. That's what I've got to find out."

"And all for the sake of your poor father's money, sir--which she'd have got in a few years' time anyhow!"

Roger was silent, knowing better than Chalmers, perhaps, the reason why Therese was not willing to wait for his father to die. He put on the light overcoat the butler held ready for him, thinking he would take one look at Esther before setting out. It was still very early; the life of the house had not yet begun. He knew that he would not find the chemist's shop open, and it might be several hours before he could accomplish much, but his restless state would not permit him to remain inactive.

As he left his room followed by Chalmers, a loud ringing and knocking at the front door caused them both to start and look at each other, recalling the dramatic entry of the police the night before. What could it be this time, and at this early hour?

"That will be a telegram, sir, I should say, though they don't generally make such a row, especially this time of day. I'll just see."

The clamour continued without ceasing. Roger let the old servant precede him down the stairs and saw him draw back the bolts of the door, muttering, "All right, all right--what's all the fuss about?"

On the threshold stood the excited figure of a telegraphic messenger, holding in his hand a _depeche_ which he did not trouble to deliver.

Instead he burst out at once in a harsh, strained voice:

"_Monsieur! Monsieur! On n'a pas su--on n'a pas regarde dehors--la-bas----_"

"_Comment?_" demanded Roger, frowning. "_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_"

"_Un accident, monsieur. Regardez donc!_"

With a tense forefinger he pointed over the low stone bal.u.s.trade at the right-hand side of the steps. Both men leaned over to look. What at first appeared to be a sodden, black rag, beaten by the rain, lay upon the ground close to the wall of the house. What was it? It was half-hidden by a rose-bush.... Someone pushed rudely past Roger, thrusting him aside. It was Aline.

"Chalmers, what is it? It can't be---- My G.o.d it is; it's ..."

An ear-splitting shriek rent the air as Aline made the same discovery.

Scream followed scream as the woman beat her hands together, crying:

"_Ah, nom d'un nom! C'est Madame, c'est Madame!_"

It was indeed Lady Clifford. The body, clad in the black chiffon frock soaked by the rain, lay crumpled up in the angle of the steps. The face was hidden under the bush, but the hands were visible, flecked with mud, their short fingers curved rigidly inward like talons, grasping, clutching at the air. All around lay glittering fragments of broken gla.s.s. What did it mean?

"Quiet that woman, someone--Chalmers, see to her," Roger cried, vaulting over the bal.u.s.trade.

He knelt and pushed aside the sheltering branches of the rose-bush so as to reveal the head and face, the messenger bending close to him, breathing heavily. The grey eyes were stretched wide with a stare of terror, the mouth hung open. On the temple over the right eyebrow gaped a deep wound from which a vast quant.i.ty of blood had poured, down the side of the face and neck and shoulder, where it now stuck clotted and dark. There was no doubt whatever that life was extinct. She had probably been dead for several hours. All the clothing was sopping with water and beaten into the soil.

"Do you think it's suicide, sir?" asked Chalmers in a low voice.

Roger shook his head without replying. Certain odd details now became apparent. Tiny red scratches marred the skin in two or three places, giving a scarred appearance. Broken twigs on the rose-bush told their story also, but it was not at these that Roger looked so fixedly.

"_Qu'est-ce qu'elle porte autour de son cou?_" whispered the messenger in a curious but awed voice.

Carefully Roger lifted a mauve, mudstained wet scarf, the two ends of which were knotted about the throat. Some object was fastened securely to the middle of the strip of silk, tied by a ribbon. He examined it wonderingly. It was the broken, jagged neck of a bottle.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

All the servants of the household, drawn by Aline's screams, now crowded upon the steps and looked on with frightened faces. From them issued a confusion of hazarded explanations, all wide of the truth.

Madame had started to go out and had had a stroke of some sort; Madame had shot herself; Madame had been lured outside by a bandit and struck with a club, the object being to secure her pearls. Yet, no--the pearls were not missing, there they were around her neck, stained dark with blood. Ah! ... what a terrible sight! Then it was not robbery after all. What could it be, then?

The neck of the bottle hung around her throat caused complete mystification, likewise the fact that upon the feet were no shoes, only the cobwebby black stockings, laced with delicate clocks, which she had worn the night before. What could have possessed her to venture out at night and into the rain as well, clad in the filmy, perishable gown and in her stocking-feet? It was a mystery wholly baffling; not one of the excited staff could offer a reasonable theory.

When the body was raised from the ground one fact at least was established, and that was that death had not been occasioned by the gash on the temple. At the first movement the head swung back like the head of a sawdust doll. The neck had been broken.

They bore the body upstairs and laid it on the gilt bed. Then at a word from Roger the butler picked up the receiver of the telephone upon the painted _table de nuit_ and rang up Dr. Bousquet. The physician could do no good, but he would attend to certain necessary formalities.

The servants crowded around, quiet now but avid with curiosity, until Roger with a wave of the hand cleared the room, at the same time issuing instructions to the chief of them. When he believed himself alone with Chalmers a touch on the arm reminded him that the messenger, who had followed the cortege upstairs, was still lingering on the threshold of the bedroom. With his grubby hand he held out the telegram he had brought, pointing to the name on the back.

"Leddy Cleefford? _C'est madame la?_" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

Roger nodded and took the telegram, slipping it into his pocket. Then mechanically he handed the messenger fifty francs and watched him depart. At the door of Esther's room he encountered his aunt, her face full of alarm.

"What is it all about, Roger? Something dreadful has happened, I know it! I didn't dare leave the room after what you said."

"Close the door and come outside. Sartorius has gone, so Esther is quite safe from him, but she's in a very nervous state and I don't want her to know this yet.... Brace up, Dido; you must try to take what I'm going to say quite calmly. Therese is dead. She died last night."

He thought she was going to faint, but she clutched the door-k.n.o.b and steadied herself.

"Dead!" Her dry lips formed the word. "Impossible! Why, last night she ... what was it? Was she ill?"

"No. It seems to have been an accident. There'll have to be an inquest. It's going to be extremely painful, and a terrible shock for you. But remember this--if she'd lived it would have been infinitely worse for us all."

She moistened her lips, regarding him with an ashen face.

"Roger--I don't think I know what you mean."

"Simply this, dear. What Miss Rowe said last night was true, all of it. She wasn't raving."

"You mean that Therese and Dr. Sartorius ... you can't mean that..."

"I do. They are murderers. They killed my father."

"Your father! But he died of typhoid fever--you know that as well as I do; there was nothing wrong about it."

"They gave him typhoid fever, by means of culture in the milk he was taking. When he was getting well, Sartorius brought on a relapse by means of injecting the pure toxin, deadly stuff. The old man hadn't the ghost of a chance. Yet it was all so hidden we should never have known anything was wrong if it had not been for Esther. She saved my life, you know. They were out to get me as well."

She put up her hand to her trembling mouth.

"Do you mean to say they would have murdered you too?" she faltered, on the verge of a collapse.

"There, dear, don't think about it too much. It's all over, thanks to that poor girl in there. Go back to her now; I'll come with you. Or no, hold on a minute--I'm going to get you a drink."

Quickly he fetched her a stiff whisky, which he made her force down.

Then when she seemed somewhat recovered, he said: