squire is much better, and she makes up her mind to remain all night.
Inez comes, pale and calm, and also takes her place by the stricken
man's bedside, a great sadness and pity for the first time on her
face. The White Room is locked--Lady Helena keeps the key--one pale
light burns dimly in its glittering vastness. And as the night closes
in blackness over the doomed house, one of the policemen comes in
haste to Superintendent Ferrick, triumph in his face. He has found the
dagger.

Mr. Ferrick opens his eyes rather--it is more than he expected.

"A bungler," he mutters, "whoever did it. Jones, where did you find
this?"

Jones explains.

Near the entrance gates there is a wilderness of fern, or bracken, as
high as your waist. Hidden in the midst of this unlikely place Jones
has found the dagger. It is as if the party, going down the avenue,
had flung it in.

"Bungler," Superintendent Ferrick says again. "It's bad enough to be a
murderer without being a fool."

He takes the dagger. No doubt about the work it has done. It is
incrusted with blood--dry, dark, and clotted up to the hilt. A strong,
sure hand had certainly done the deed. For the first time the thought
strikes him--_could_ a woman's hand, strike that one strong, sure,
deadly blow? Miss Catheron is a fragile-looking young lady, with a
waist he could span, slim little fingers, and a delicate wrist. Could