t her nerve."

"Yes," answered Maggie doubtfully; "I think it was that."

Paul went on. He carried a lamp in one steady hand.

"We shall probably find her in one of these rooms," he said. "It is so
easy to lose one's self among the passages and staircases."

They passed on through the great smoking-room, with its hunting
trophies. The lynx, with its face of Claude de Chauxville, grinned at
them darkly from its pedestal.

Half-way down the stairs leading to the side door they met Steinmetz
coming hastily up. His face was white and drawn with horror.

"You must not go down here," he said, in a husky voice, barring the
passage with his arm.

"Why not?"

"Go up again!" said Steinmetz breathlessly. "You must not go down here."

Paul laid his hand on the broad arm stretched across the stairway. For a
moment it almost appeared to be a physical struggle, then Steinmetz
stepped aside.

"I beg of you," he said, "not to go down."

And Paul went on, followed by Steinmetz, and behind them, Maggie. At the
foot of the stairs a broader passage led to the side door, and from this
other passages opened into the servants' quarters, and communicated
through the kitchens with the modern building.

It was evident that the door leading to the grassy slope at the back of
the castle was open, for a cold wind blew up the stairs and made the
lamps flicker.

At the end of the passage Paul stopped.

Steinmetz was a little behind him, holding Maggie back.

The two lamps lighted up the passage and showed the white form of the
Princess Etta lying huddled up against the wall. The face was hidden,
but there was no mistaking the beautiful dress and hair. It could only
be Etta. Paul stooped down and looked at her, but he did not touch her.
He went a few paces forward and closed the door. Beyond Etta a black
form lay across the passage, all trodden underfoot and dishevelled. Paul
held the lamp down, and through the mud and blood Claude de Chauxville's
clear-cut features were outlined.

Death is always unmistakable, though it be shown by nothing more than a
heap of muddy clothes.

Claude de Chauxville was lying across the passage. He had been trodden
underfoot by the stream of maddened peasants who had entered by this
door which had been opened for them, whom Steinmetz had checked at the
foot of the stairs by shooting their ringleader.

De Chauxville's scalp was torn away by a blow, probably given with a
spade or some blunt instrument