class="narrative">As the car drew up at the door, Raife sprang out, and rushing through the great stone hall, the flags of which were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and where stood the stands of armour of dead Reymingtounes, he came face to face with old Edgson, grave and white-haired.

“Ah, Master Raife!” cried the old man, “I’m so glad you’ve come, sir. Her ladyship is in the boudoir awaiting you.”

“What’s happened, Edgson?” demanded the young man.

“Please don’t ask me, sir. Her ladyship will tell you,” was the old servant’s response, in a half-choked voice, and he turned away.

A few moments later, Raife entered the small, cosy little room, with the high, diamond-pane windows, whereon were stained-glass escutcheons. Two women were there, his mother seated with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly, and, beside her, her faithful companion, an elderly spinster named Miss Holt, who had been in the family for many years and had, indeed, been at school with Lady Remington.

Miss Holt, who was on her knees trying to comfort Raife’s mother, rose as the son entered.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing towards her. “What’s the matter? Tell me—for heaven’s sake! Edgson will tell me nothing.”

But all the response from the agonised woman was a long, low groan.

“Miss Holt,” he said, turning to her companion. “Tell me, what has happened?”

The angular woman, whose face was pale and thin, raised a warning finger, and pointed in silence to the sobbing lady. Then she whispered:

“Come into the next room, and I will tell you.”

Both passed into the inner room, and when Miss Holt had closed the door, she said:

“I am sorry to have to break the awful news to you, Mr Raife, but a most remarkable and terrible affair occurred here, early this morning. From what I am able to gather, your father, who—as you know—sleeps over the library, was awakened about three o’clock by an unusual noise, and, listening, came to the conclusion that a slow, sawing process was in progress in the library—that some one was below.”

“Burglars!” ejaculated Raife.

“Your father took his revolver and the little electric flash-lamp which he always has in his room, and, preferring to investigate before ringing and alarming the household, crept downstairs and noiselessly opened the library door. Inside, he saw a small light moving. In an instant, a man who had already opened the safe, drew a revolver and fired point blank at your father.”

“Shot my father!” gasped Raife, staring at her. “Yes. Unfortunately the bullet struck Sir Henry. He fell, but while on the ground, and before the burglar could escape, he fired and shot him dead. We were all alarmed by the shots—and for the rest, well, you had better ask Edgson. He will tell you. I must go back to your poor mother.”

“But my father?”

“Alas! he is dead,” was the thin-faced woman’s hushed response.

“Dead!” gasped Raife, staggered. “Then the fellow murdered him!”

Miss Holt nodded in the affirmative.

At that moment old Edgson entered with a message. The doctor had returned to see her ladyship.

Raife barred the old servant’s passage, saying:

“Miss Holt has told me, Edgson. Explain at once what had happened when you were all alarmed.”

“Well, Master Raife, I rushed down, sir,” replied the old fellow, white-faced and agitated. “Burton, the footman, got down first, and when I rushed into the library I found the poor master lying on the carpet doubled up, with blood all over his pyjama-jacket. He recognised me, sir, and declared, in a low, weak voice, that the thief had shot him. At first I was so scared that I couldn’t act or think. But, on switching on the lights, I saw the body of a stranger—an elderly man, wearing thin indiarubber gloves—lying near the French window.”

“Then my father was still conscious?”

“Quite. I sent Burton to the telephone to ring up Doctor Grant, in Tunbridge Wells, while I did all I could to restore the poor master. He was then quite sensible. With Burton’s aid I managed to get him on to the couch in the bedroom, and then he spoke several disjointed sentences while we waited for the doctor’s arrival. He asked for you, sir, and told me to give you a message.”

“A message, Edgson! What message did he leave for me?” asked the son, eagerly.

“His words were these, sir: ‘Tell Master Raife that the blackguard deliberately shot me! Tell him—to be careful—to be wary of the trap. I—I hesitated to tell the boy the truth, but now, Edgson, alas! it is too late!’”

“The truth!” ejaculated young Remington. “What did he mean, Edgson? What did he mean about being careful of the trap?”

“Ah! I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the old servant, shaking his head gravely. “Some secret of his, no doubt. I pressed the master to reveal it to me; but all he would reply was: ‘I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, Edgson. This is mine!’ Then he murmured something about ‘her’ and ‘that woman’—a woman in the case, it struck me, Master Raife.”

“A woman!” echoed young Remington.

“So it seemed. But, Master Raife, in my position I couldn’t well inquire further into the poor master’s secret. Besides, her ladyship and others came in at the moment. So he uttered no other word—and died before Doctor Grant could arrive.”

“But what does this all mean, Edgson?” asked the dead man’s son, astounded.

“I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the grave-faced old man. “I really don’t know, sir.”

“To my mind, it seems as though his secret was, in some mysterious way, connected with the fellow who shot him,” declared the young fellow, pale and anxious. “My poor mother does not know—eh?”

“She knows nothing, Master Raife. In the years I have been in the service of your family, I have learnt discretion. I have told you this, sir, because you are my master’s son,” was the faithful man’s response.

“You had no inkling of any secret, Edgson?”

“None in the least, sir, though I have been in Sir Henry’s service thirty-two years come next Michaelmas.”

“It’s a complete mystery then?”

“Yes, sir, a complete mystery. But perhaps you’d like to see the master’s murderer? We’ve taken his body over to the empty cottage at the stables. I’m expecting the detectives from London every minute. Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard for assistance.”

“Yes. Take me over there, Edgson,” said Raife, boldly. “I wonder if I know him! This secret of my father’s which he intended to reveal to me, though prevented by death, I mean to investigate—to unravel the mystery. Come, Edgson.”

And the young master—now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet—followed the grave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive, where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock of which, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out the hour.