t the foot of the ladder.

"Is it Miss Mackwayte?" whispered Francis to his brother. "I've
never seen her, you know!"

"I can't tell," Desmond whispered back, "until I see her face."

He advanced to descend the ladder but Matthews was before him.
Producing an electric torch from his pocket, Matthews slipped
down the stair with Gordon close behind. There was a pause, so
tense that it seemed an eternity to Desmond, as he waited
half-way down the ladder with the musty smell of the cellar in
his nostrils. Then Matthews cried:

"It's not her!"

"Let me look!" Gordon broke in. Then Desmond heard him exclaim.

"It's Nur-el-Din's French maid! It's Marie... she's been stabbed
in the back!"

Desmond suddenly felt rather sick. This progress from one deed of
violence to another revolted him. The others crowded into the
cellar; but he did not follow them. He remained at the top of the
trap, leaning against the wall, trying to collect his thoughts.

Barbara Mackwayte was now his sole preoccupation. If anything had
happened to her,--it was through his fault alone; for he began to
feel sure she must have come to the Mill House in his absence.
What then had become of her? The blood-stained toque pointed to
foul play. But if they had murdered her, what had they done with
the body?

His thoughts flew back to his interview with Nur-el-Din upstairs
on the previous afternoon. He remembered the entrance of the maid
and the dancer's hurried exit. Might not Marie have come to tell
her that Barbara Mackwayte was below asking for her? It was very
shortly after this interruption that, crouching on the roof of
the shed, he had heard that muffled cry from the house and seen
Rass enter the bar and speak with Strangwise. He had seen, too,
the maid, Marie, in earnest conversation with Strangwise by the
back gate on the fen. Had both Marie and Rass been in league with
Strangwise against the dancer? And had Nur-el-Din discovered
their treachery? His mind refused to follow these deductions to
their logical sequence; for, black as things looked against
Nur-el-Din, he could not bring himself to believe her a
murderess.

But now there were footsteps on the ladder. They were all coming
out of the cellar again. As soon as Francis saw Desmond's face,
he caught his brother by the arm and said:

"The open air for you, my boy! You look as if you'd seen a ghost!
I should have remembered all you've gone through!"

He walked him quickly through the