man's voice
shook with emotion, and his strained eyes gazed from one face to the
other in heartbreaking intensity.

"You are absolutely sure that you have no suspicion of the murderer's
identity?" Cleek asked with a sharpness unusual to him. "No reason to
doubt any living soul?"

For just the merest fraction of a second young Clavering appeared to
hesitate.

"No," he said curtly. "No, I have not. I know no more about it than a
child. Mellish told me about the murder, and it was only natural that I
should come up here to make inquiries."

"But, yes, monsieur, of course," agreed Cleek softly. "There is, then,
no more to be said save good-bye. I fear me I shall not have the
pleasure of meeting you again, as I return to Paris to-morrow. The case
is one of the most mysterious, and I leave it to your English detective,
Mr. George Headland. So it is adieu, monsieur, and not au revoir."

He held out his hand to the young man, who grasped it in his own
trembling one, and then, with a sharp "good-night," Geoff Clavering
turned and strode back in the direction whence he had come.

"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger
and rubbing it up and down. "A total denial! And with enough decency to
blush! Quite so! Quite so!"

Mr. Narkom, knowing the signs and being torn with eagerness for the
father of that rash boy, moved forward and laid a shaking hand upon his
sleeve.

"Cleek," he said in a whisper full of anxiety and excitement, "don't
keep it back, dear chap. You've come to some conclusion. Speak up, do,
and tell me what you make of it?"

"Make of it, Mr. Narkom? Well, for one thing, I make of it that that
young man lied like a pickpocket and deliberately attempted to throw
dust in our eyes. He not only _does_ suspect some one--and with good
grounds, too--but he has been here before and in that house to-night. In
other words, his was the foot that crushed that golden capsule. The
scent of the _Huile Violette_ was upon the drawing paper, the measure,
the muffler, the cap--every blessed thing he trod on in his scuffle with
Dollops!"

"Good God! Oh, his poor father! Surely, surely, Cleek, you do not
believe----"

"My dear Mr. Narkom, I never suffer myself to 'believe' anything until I
have absolute proof of it. What I may _think_ is a different matter."

"And you think of that boy--what?"

"That he is either a hot-headed, quixotic, loyal, lovable young ass, Mr.
Narkom, or he's a remarka