"George is dead," the Professor said slowly.

There was a moment's awful silence, broken by a piercing scream from Lady Ashleigh. She sank down upon the sofa and the Professor leaned over her.

Quest turned to the little group of frightened servants who were gathering round the doorway.

"Telephone for a doctor," he ordered, "also to the local police-station."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "FOR G.o.d'S SAKE, COME! MY MASTER HAS BEEN STRANGLED TO DEATH."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "LADY ASHLEIGH, I WILL FIND AND BRING TO JUSTICE, THE CRIMINAL."]

He, too, approached the bed and reverently lifted the covering. Lord Ashleigh was lying there, his body a little doubled up, his arms wide outstretched. On his throat were two black marks.

"Where is the valet--Williams?" Quest asked, as he turned away.

The man came forward.

"Tell us at once what you know?" Quest demanded.

"I came in, as usual, to call his lordship before I called you," the man replied. "He did not answer, but I thought, perhaps, that he was sleepy. I filled his bath, which, as you see, opens out of the room, and then came to attend on you. When you went down to breakfast, I returned to his lordship's room expecting to find him dressed. Instead of that the room was silent, the bath still unused. I spoke to him--there was no answer.

Then I lifted the sheet!"

They had led Lady Ashleigh from the room. The Professor and Quest stood face to face. The former's expression, however, had lost all his amiable serenity. His face was white and pinched. He looked shrivelled up. It was as though some physical stroke had fallen upon him.

"Quest! Quest!" he almost sobbed. "My brother!--George, whom I loved like n.o.body else on earth! Is he really dead?"

"Absolutely!"

The Professor gripped the oak pillar of the bedstead. He seemed on the point of collapse.

"The mark of the Hands is upon his throat," Quest pointed out.

"The Hands! Oh, my G.o.d!" the Professor groaned.

"We must not eat or drink or sleep," Quest declared fiercely, "until we have brought this matter to an end. Craig must be found. This is the supreme horror of all. Pull yourself together, Mr. Ashleigh. We shall need every particle of intelligence we possess. I begin to think that we are fighting against something superhuman."

The butler made an apologetic appearance. He spoke in a hushed whisper.

"You are wanted downstairs, gentlemen. Middleton, the head-keeper, is there."

As though inspired with a common idea, both Quest and the Professor hurried out of the room and down the broad stairs. Their inspiration was a true one. The gamekeeper welcomed them with a smile of triumph. By his side, the picture of abject misery, his clothes torn and muddy, was Craig!

"I've managed this little job, sir," Middleton announced, with a smile of slow triumph.

"How did you get him?" Quest demanded.

"Little idea of my own," the gamekeeper continued. "I guessed pretty well what he'd be up to. He'd tumbled to it that the usual way off the moor was pretty well guarded, and he'd doubled back through the thin line of woods close to the house. I dug one of my poachers' pits, sir, and covered it over with a lot of loose stuff. That got him all right. When I went to look this morning I saw where he'd fallen through, and there he was, walking round and round at the bottom like a caged animal. Your servants have telephoned for the police, Mr. Ashleigh," he went on, turning to the Professor, "but I'd like you just to point out to the Scotland Yard gentleman--called us yokels, he did, when he first came down--that we've a few ideas of our own down here."

Quest suddenly whispered to the Professor. Then he turned to the keeper.

"Bring him upstairs, Middleton, for a moment," he directed. "Follow us, please."

The Professor gripped Quest's arm as they ascended the stairs.

"What is this?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely. "What is it you wish to do?"

"It's just an idea of my own," Quest replied. "I rather believe in that sort of thing. I want to confront him with the result of his crime."

The Professor stopped short. His eyes were half-closed.

"It is too horrible!" he muttered.

"Nothing could be too horrible for an inhuman being like this," Quest answered tersely. "I want to see whether he'll commit himself."

They pa.s.sed into the bedchamber. Quest signed to the keeper to bring Craig to the side of the four-poster. Then he drew down the sheet.

"Is that your work?" he asked sternly.

Craig, up till then, had spoken no word. He had shambled to the bedside, a broken, yet in a sense, a stolid figure. The sight of the dead man, however, seemed to galvanise him into sudden and awful vitality. He threw up his arms. His eyes were horrible as they glared at those small black marks. His lips moved, helplessly at first. Then at last he spoke.

"Strangled!" he cried. "One more!"

"That is your work," the criminologist said firmly.

Craig collapsed. He would have fallen bodily to the ground if Middleton's grip had not kept him up. Quest bent over him. It was clear that he had fainted. They led him from the room.

"We'd better lock him up until the police arrive," Quest suggested. "I suppose there is a safe place somewhere?"

The Professor awoke from his stupor.

"Let me show you," he begged. "I know the way. We've a subterranean hiding-place which no criminal on this earth could escape from."

They led him down to the back part of the house, a miserable, dejected procession. Holding candles over their heads, they descended two sets of winding stone steps, pa.s.sed along a gloomy corridor till they came to a heavy oak door, which Moreton, the butler, who carried the keys, opened with some difficulty. It led into a dry cellar which had the appearance of a prison cell. There was a single bench set against the wall. Quest looked around quickly.

"This place has been used before now, in the old days, for malefactors,"

the Professor remarked. "He'll be safe there. Craig," he added, his voice trembling, "Craig--I--I can't speak to you. How could you!"

There was no answer. Craig's face was buried in his hands. They left him there and turned the key.

2.

Quest stood, frowning, upon the pavement, gazing at the obviously empty house. He looked once more at the slip of paper which Lenora had given him. There was no possibility of any mistake:--

"Mrs. Willet, 157 Elsmere Road, Hampstead."

This was 157 and the house was empty. After a moment's hesitation he rang the bell at the adjoining door. A woman who had been watching him from the front room, answered the summons at once.

"Can you tell me," he enquired, "what has become of the lady who used to live at 157--Mrs. Willet?"