lowed, flocking towards the door in a body.

The first sight that Musard's eye fell upon as he passed through the
doorway was the figure of Miss Heredith, rapidly descending the
staircase. By the hall light he could see that her face was pale and
agitated. She walked swiftly up to her old friend, and laid a trembling
hand on his arm.

"Oh, Vincent, I was just coming for you--something terrible must have
happened!" she began, in a broken, sobbing voice. "I was going upstairs
to my room, when I heard the scream, and then the shot. They must have
come from Violet's room. Will you go up and see, Vincent?"

Musard did not wait for her concluding words. He was already mounting
the staircase, taking two or three of the broad shallow stairs in his
stride. Phil hobbled after him, and Sir Philip and some of the guests
straggled up in their wake.

CHAPTER V

A shaded light in an alcove at the head of the stairs threw a dim light
down the passage which led off the first-floor landing, but Musard felt
for the electric switch and pressed it. The light flooded an empty
corridor, with the door of the room nearest to him gaping into a dark
interior.

Musard stepped inside the open door, struck a match to find the switch,
and walked over and turned on the light. As he did so, Phil and his
father reached the door and followed him into the room, where, less than
two hours before, Miss Heredith had been with Phil's young wife, and
left her to sleep. The room seemed as it had been then; there was no
sign of any intruder. The cut-glass and silver bottles stood on the
small table by the head of the bed; the gold cigarette case was open
alongside them; a novel, flung face downward on the pillows, revealed a
garish cover and the bold lettering of the title--"What Shall it
Profit?"--as though the book had dropped from the hand of some one
overcome by sleep. But the white rays of the electric globe, hanging in
a shade of rose colour directly overhead, fell with sinister
distinctness on the slender figure of the young wife, lying in a huddled
heap on the bed, her fashionable rest gown stained with blood, which
oozed from her breast in a sluggish stream on the satin quilt. A sharp,
pungent odour was mingled with the heavy atmosphere of the room--the
smell of a burning fabric. There was no disorder, no weapon, no
indication of a struggle. Only the motionless, bleeding figure on the
bed revealed to the guests clustering outside the room