rs?"

"This way, sir," said Bunning. "Fortress, you call it, sir, but it's
more like a rabbit-warren! No end of twists and turns--that is, once you
get inside it."

He preceded Richard Brent up the stone staircase, along narrow corridors
and passages, until he came to a door, at which he knocked gently.
Receiving no reply he opened it and went in, motioning Brent to follow.
But before Bunning had well crossed the threshold he started back with a
sharp cry. The Mayor was there, but he was lying face forward across the
desk--lifeless.

CHAPTER II

THE CAMBRIC HANDKERCHIEF

Bunning knew the Mayor was dead before that cry of surprise had passed
his lips. In his time he had seen many dead men--sometimes it was a
bullet, sometimes a bayonet; he knew the signs of what follows on the
swift passage of one and the sharp thrust of the other. In his first
glance into the room he had been quick to notice the limp hand hanging
across the edge of the desk, the way in which Wallingford's head lay
athwart the mass of papers over which he had collapsed in falling
forward from his chair--that meant death. And the old soldier's
observant eye had seen more than that--over the litter of documents
which lay around the still figure were great crimson stains. The
caretaker's cry changed to articulated speech.

"Murder! The Mayor's been murdered!"

Brent, a strongly-built and active man, pushed by, and made for the
desk. He was going to lay a hand on his cousin's shoulder, but Bunning
stopped him.

"For God's sake, Mr. Brent, don't touch him!" he exclaimed. "Let him be,
sir, till the police----" He paused, staring round the gloomy,
oak-panelled room from the walls of which the portraits of various
dignitaries looked down. "Who on earth can have done it?" he muttered.
"It's--it's not three-quarters of an hour since he came up here!"

"Alone?" asked Brent.

"Alone, sir! And I'll take my solemn oath that nobody was here, waiting
for him. I'd been in this room myself, not five minutes before he came,"
said Dunning. "It was empty of course."

Brent disregarded the caretaker's admonition and laid a finger on the
dead man's forehead. But Bunning pointed to a dark stain, still
spreading, on the back of the Mayor's coat--a well-worn garment of grey
tweed.

"Look there, sir," he whispered. "He's been run through the body from
behind--right through the heart!--as he sat in his chair. Murder!"

"Who should murder him?" demanded Bre