perb, either
in daylight or when a great Venetian luster in the center of the
ceiling blazed with electric lights.

The body of the unfortunate banker had not been removed from the oaken
settee at the back of the hall, and was still covered with a white
sheet. An enormously stout woman, clothed in a dressing-gown of black
lace, was standing in the cross gallery and resisting the gentle
efforts of Sylvia Manning, now attired in black, to take her away. The
stout woman's face was deathly white, and her distended eyes were
gazing dully at the ominous figure stretched beneath. Two podgy
hands, with rings gleaming on every finger, were clutching the carved
railing, and the tenacity of their grip caused the knuckles to stand
out in white spots on the ivory-tinted skin.

This, then, was Mrs. Fenley, in whom some vague stirring of the spirit
had induced a consciousness that all was not well in the household
with which she "never interfered."

It was she who had uttered that ringing shriek when some flustered
maid blurted out that "the master" was dead, and her dazed brain had
realized what the sheet covered. She lifted her eyes from that
terrifying object when her son entered with Hilton Fenley.

"Oh, Bob!" she wailed. "They've killed your father! Why did you let
them do it?"

Even in the agony of the moment the distraught young man was aware
that his mother was in no fit state to appear thus openly.

"Mother," he said roughly, "you oughtn't to be here, you know. Do go
to your room with Sylvia. I'll come soon, and explain everything."

"Explain!" she wailed. "Explain your father's death! Who killed him?
Tell me that, and I'll tear them with my nails. But is he dead? Did
that hussy lie to me? You all tell me lies because you think I am a
fool. Let me alone, Sylvia. I _will_ go to my husband. Let me alone,
or I'll strike you!"

By sheer weight she forced herself free from the girl's hands, and
tottered down the stairs. At the half landing she fell to her knees,
and Sylvia ran to pick her up. Then Hilton Fenley seemed to arouse
himself from a stupor. Flinging a command at the servants, he rushed
to Sylvia's assistance, and, helped by Tomlinson and a couple of
footmen, half carried the screaming and fighting woman up the stairs
and along a corridor.

Thus it happened that Robert Fenley was left in the hall with the dead
body of his father. He stood stock still, and seemed to follow with
disapproval the manner of the dis