one in the morning when she reached Catheron Royals. The tall turrets
were silvered in the moonlight, the windows sparkled in the crystal
light. The sweet beauty and peace of the September night lay like a
benediction over the earth. And, amid all the silence and sweetness,
a foul, a most horrible murder had been done.

She encountered Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, in the hall, her face
pale, her eyes red with weeping. Some dim hope that up to this time
had upheld her, that, after all, there _might_ be a mistake, died
out then.

"Oh, Marsh," she said, piteously, "_is_ it true?"

Mrs. Marsh's answer was a fresh burst of tears. Like all the rest of
the household, the gentle ways, the sweet face, and soft voice of Sir
Victor's wife had won her heart from the first.

"It is too true, my lady--the Lord have mercy upon us all. It seems
too horrid for belief, but it is true. As she lay asleep there, four
hours ago, in her own house, surrounded by her own servants, some
monster in human form stabbed her through the heart--through the heart,
my lady--Dr. Dane says one blow did it, and that death must have been
instantaneous. So young, so sweet, and so lovely. Oh, how could they
do it--how could any one do it?"

Mrs. Marsh's sobs grew hysterical. Lady Helena's own tears were
flowing.

"I feel as though I were guilty in some way myself," the housekeeper
went on. "If we had only woke her up, or fastened the window, or