first--the woman's--the discovery of which is made by a lad; but the
second, half hidden in the snow, he notices readily enough, and at once
points it out. He explains that burglars have been on the war-path. But
examine his horror of surprise when he hears that the window is closed;
when he sees the woman's bleeding fingers. He cannot help exclaiming,
"My God! what has happened _now_?" But why "now"? The word cannot refer
to his father's death, for that he knew, or guessed, beforehand, having
heard the shot. Is it not rather the exclamation of a man whose schemes
destiny has complicated? Besides, he should have _expected_ to find the
window closed: no one except himself, Lord Pharanx, and the workman,
who was now dead, knew the secret of its construction; the burglars
therefore, having entered and robbed the room, one of them, intending
to go out, would press on the ledge, and the sash would fall on his
hand with what result we know. The others would then either break the
glass and so escape; or pass through the house; or remain prisoners.
That immoderate surprise was therefore absurdly illogical, after seeing
the burglar-track in the snow. But how, above all, do you account for
Lord Pharanx's silence during and after the burglars' visit--if there
was a visit? He was, you must remember, alive all that time; _they_ did
not kill him; certainly they did not shoot him, for the shot is heard
after the snow has ceased to fall,--that is, after, long after, they
have left, since it was the falling snow that had half obliterated
their tracks; nor did they stab him, for to this Cibras confesses. Why
then, being alive, and not gagged, did he give no token of the presence
of his visitors? There were in fact no burglars at Orven Hall that
night.'

'But the track!' I cried, 'the jewels found in the snow--the
neckerchief!'