hen
Richford drove up. He looked anxious and white and sullen withal, and he
favoured Mark with a particularly malevolent scowl. Richford knew the
relationship that had existed at one time between Mark and Beatrice.

"I suppose you must be excused under the circumstances for racing off
with my wife in this fashion," he said hoarsely. It seemed to Mark that
he had found time to drink somewhere, though, as a rule, that was not
one of Richford's failings. "Where is she?"

"She has gone to change," Mark said. "This is a very unfortunate
business, Mr. Richford."

Richford shrugged his shoulders with an assumption of indifference. His
hand trembled slightly.

"Sir Charles was getting on in years," he said; "and Sir Charles had not
troubled to give very great attention to the question of his health. In
fact, Sir Charles had gone it steadily. But it seems now to me that so
long as the doctors are satisfied as to the cause of death----"

"I am not at all sure the doctor is satisfied," Mark said significantly.
"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing," Richford stammered. "Nothing more than a twinge of
that confounded neuralgia of mine."

CHAPTER VI

Beatrice came down from her room presently, dressed in quiet black. In
her hand she carried not only the telegram but a letter she had taken
from the dressing-table of the dead man.

The little group in the hall had by this time been augmented by the
presence of Colonel Berrington; Stephen Richford had slipped off
somewhere. Mark had not failed to notice the restlessness and agitation
of his manner.

"I think I have got rid of everybody," Berrington said. "It has been a
most distressing business, and I am afraid that there is worse to come.
Dr. Andrews has just telephoned. He has seen Sir Charles's medical man,
and they have decided that there must be an inquest. I don't suggest
that anything is wrong, but there you are."

"I am not surprised," Beatrice said coldly, "I have been to my father's
room looking over his papers. And I found a letter that puzzles me. It
was written last night as the date shows, in the hotel, on hotel paper,
and evidently delivered by hand, as the envelope proves. Look at this."

Colonel Berrington held out his hand for the envelope. He started
slightly as he looked at the neat, clear handwriting. Something was
evidently wrong here, Mark thought. The Colonel was a man of courage, as
he very well knew, and yet his fingers trembled as he