a
crescendo, and gave full scope to it.

"Good Heavens!" cried the doctor. "Haven't you been told? Why are you
here? Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep nearly an hour ago.
At least that is the message telephoned by his son. Unfortunately I
was out. Right ahead, Tom!"

The chauffeur threw in the clutch, and the car darted on again. Farrow
followed, a quite alert and horrified policeman now. But it was not
ordained that he should enter the house. He was distant yet a hundred
yards, or more, when three men came through the doorway. They were
Bates, the keeper, Tomlinson, the butler, and Mr. Hilton Fenley, elder
son of the man now reported dead. All were bareheaded. The arrival of
the doctor, at the instant alighting from his car, prevented them from
noticing Farrow's rapid approach. When Hilton Fenley saw the doctor he
threw up his hands with the gesture of one who has plumbed the depths
of misery. Farrow could, and did, fit in the accompanying words quite
accurately.

"Nothing can be done, Stern! My father is dead!"

The two clasped each other's hand, and Hilton Fenley staggered
slightly. He was overcome with emotion. The shock of a terrible crime
had taxed his self-control to its uttermost bounds. He placed a hand
over his eyes and said brokenly to the butler:

"You take Dr. Stern inside, Tomlinson. I'll join you in a few minutes.
I must have a breath of air, or I'll choke!"

Doctor and butler hurried into the house; then, but not until then,
Hilton Fenley and the keeper became aware of Farrow, now within a few
yards. At sight of him, Fenley seemed to recover his faculties; the
mere possibility of taking some definite action brought a tinge of
color to a pallid and somewhat sallow face.

"Ah! Here is the constable," he cried. "Go with him, Bates, and have
that artist fellow arrested!"

"Meaning Mr. Trenholme, sir?" inquired the policeman, startled anew by
this unexpected reference to the man he had parted from so recently.

"I don't know his name; but Bates met him in the park, near the lake,
just after the shot was fired that killed my father."

"But I met him, too, sir. He didn't fire any shot. He hadn't a gun. In
fact, he spoke about the shootin', and was surprised at it."

"Look here, Farrow, I am incapable of thinking clearly; so you must
act for the best. Some one fired that bullet. It nearly tore my father
to pieces. I never saw anything like it. It was ghastly--oh, ghastly!
The murderer m