been fond of a dash in his runabout when time permitted. Down by the
brook, back of the stable, was a tiny wharf, where a boat was tied up,
a craft which Margaret Langmore had occasionally taken down to the
river for a row.

The mansion now looked dark and lonesome, although many folks passed on
the highway and whispered to each other that there was the spot where
the gruesome tragedy had been committed. "And to think that the man's
own daughter did it," they would generally add. "Beats all how
bloodthirsty some folks can get. He must have cut her short on money
or something and she was too high-strung to stand it."

"No, it ain't that," another would answer. "She's been flirting around
with a certain young man, a Wall Street gambler, and her mother
wouldn't have it and told her so. That's the real trouble, my way of
thinking."

Inside of the house all was as quiet as a tomb save for the ticking of
the long clock in the lower hall. Below, a single policeman was on
guard, in company with a woman, who had been sent in to help: Upstairs
another woman was stationed, to see that Margaret Langmore might not
take it upon herself to leave for parts unknown.

Margaret sat in her own room, in the wing on the second floor, a dainty
apartment, trimmed in blue and containing all her girlish treasures.
On the walls were numerous photographs of her old schoolmates and the
flag of the seminary she had attended. And on the mantel rested the
picture of Raymond Case, the high polish of the surface marred in one
spot where a tear had fallen upon it.