d to her.

"May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that occasion,
Mrs. Howett?" he said. "My request must appear singular, I know, but I
assure you it is no idle one."

Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had conceived a
sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away excitedly.

"Finally, Benson," said Harley, "what else did you bring into the room
after Sir Charles and I had entered?"

"Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the soup
plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I can't say
which were the actual plates used."

Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, and
gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. "Did the maid, Jones, handle any
of these?" he asked.

"No, sir"--emphatically. "She was preparing to bring the trout from the
kitchen."

"But I saw her in the room."

"She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast racks,
sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were never brought to
the table."

"H'm. Has Jones left?"

"Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howett
packed her off right away. She left the very next day after poor Sir
Charles died."

"Where has she gone?"

"To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howett
has the address."

At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number of
serviettes.

"This was the cloth," she said, spreading it out, "but which of the
serviettes were used I cannot say."

"Allow me to look," replied Paul Harley.

One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in turn and
examining it critically.

"What have we here!" he exclaimed, presently. "Have blackberries been
served within the week, Mrs. Howett?"

"We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles--God rest
him--said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!" She turned to
Benson. "How is it I never noticed those stains, and what can have
caused them?"

The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all over
with dark purple spots.

CHAPTER XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED

Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed to
the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph in a silver
frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he induced a sort of
auto-hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to smile at him sadly. Then
a shadow appeared to obscure th