es, flung shadows on the walls. Some
curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert
Craven sat moodily in a dark corner.

At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed
attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First
she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel,
some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_. These she flung at him,
fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of
protest from the very notes.

"There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was
almost indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff--I can give you
more of it."

"I would like something better now," he said gravely.

Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes
were tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the
"Moonlight" sonata.

"I am not in the mood for the last movement," she said, and closed the
piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old
gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered.

Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted
street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the
stern shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall.

But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning
to be terrible. God--this God--this Unknown God--pursued him. Only a
little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing shadow came
to him--Margaret Craven's grave and tender eyes.

CHAPTER V

STONE ALTARS

1

Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and
wanderers had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had
been made, and a verdict of Wilful "Wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown" had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax's
life had not been of the most savoury and that there were, in all
probability, amongst the back streets of Cambridge several persons who
had owed him a grudge. He appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were
now made on every side, to be something better dead than alive. A stout
and somnolent gentleman, with red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the
only mourner from the outside world at the funeral. This, it appeared,
was an uncle. Father dead, mother divorced and leading a pleasant
existence amongst the capitals of Europe. The uncle, although
maintaining a decent appearance of g