ralia especially to devote myself to
this matter. I should have been in London long ago, but that out in
Australia I was with some friends in a part of the country where it is
difficult to get letters. As soon as Mrs. Vrain's letter about the
terrible end of my father came to hand I arranged my affairs and left at
once for England. Since my arrival I have seen Mr. Saker, our family
lawyer, and Mr. Link, the detective. They have told me all they know,
and now I wish to hear what you have to say."

"I am afraid I cannot help you, Miss Vrain," said Lucian dubiously.

"Ah! You refuse to help me?"

"Oh, no! no! I shall only be too glad to do what I can," protested
Lucian, shocked that she should think him so hard-hearted, "but I know
of nothing likely to solve the mystery. Both myself and Link have done
our best to discover the truth, but without success."

"Well, Mr. Denzil," said Diana, after a pause, "they often say that a
woman's wit can do more than a man's logic, so you and I must put our
heads together and discover the guilty person. Have you no suspicion?"

"No. I have no suspicion," replied Lucian frankly. "Have you?"

"I have. I suspect--a lady."

"Mrs. Vrain?"

"Yes. How do you know I meant her?"

"Because at one time I suspected her myself."

"You suspected rightly," replied Diana. "I believe that Mrs. Vrain
killed her husband."

CHAPTER IX

A MARRIAGE THAT WAS A FAILURE

Denzil did not reply at once to the accusation levelled by Diana at Mrs.
Vrain, as he was too astonished at her vehemence to find his voice
readily. When he did speak, it was to argue on the side of the pretty
widow.

"I think you must be mistaken," he said at length.

"But, Mr. Denzil, you declared that you suspected her yourself!"

"At one time, but not now," replied Lucian decisively, "because at the
time of the murder Mrs. Vrain was keeping Christmas in Berwin Manor."

"Like Nero fiddling when Rome was burning," retorted Diana sharply; "but
you mistake my meaning. I do not say that Mrs. Vrain committed the crime
personally, but she inspired and guided the assassin."

"And who is the assassin, in your opinion?"

"Count Hercule Ferruci."

"An Italian?"

"As you may guess from the name."

"Now, that is strange," cried Lucian, with some excitement, "for, from
the nature of the wound, I believe that your father was stabbed by an
Italian stiletto."

"Aha!" said Diana, with satisfaction. "That strengthens the a