to her feet.
"For you, Miss Scarse, I think it is hardly wise. You are very much upset. Had you not better go to bed?"
"I couldn't sleep with this on my mind. I must know if it is Harold or not. If it is, I am certain you shot him, and until I know the truth I don't let you out of my sight."
"Very good." Van Zwieten bowed and smiled. "Come, then, and guide me."
"Brenda, you can't go out now. I forbid you--it is not fit or proper."
"What do I care for propriety in such a case as this?" cried Brenda, in a passion. "Come with me then, father."
"No, I can't--I am too ill."
Van Zwieten cast an amused look at Scarse, and the old man winced again. He turned away and poured himself out a glass of brandy. Without taking any further notice of him, Brenda put on her wet cloak and left the room, followed almost immediately by the Dutchman. Van Zwieten had many questions to ask his host, for he knew a good deal, and guessed more; but this was not the time for cross-examination. It was imperative that the identity of the deceased should be ascertained, and Van Zwieten wished to be on the spot when the discovery was made. As he left the room he heard the glass in Scarse's trembling hand clink against the decanter, and the sound made him smile. He guessed the cause of such perturbation.
The rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind was still high, and dense black clouds hurtled across the sky. A pale moon showed herself every now and then from behind the flying wrack, and fitfully lighted the midnight darkness.
As she was with Van Zwieten, Brenda took a wide circle through the village street. There were many people about in spite of the bad weather--some with lanterns--but Brenda could not gather from the scraps of conversation she heard whether the report of the dead man lying in the orchards had got abroad.
In silence Van Zwieten strode along beside her, apparently indifferent to anything. His attitude irritated the girl, and when the wind lulled for a moment she demanded sharply where he had been on that night.
"You will be surprised to hear, Miss Scarse, that I went to see Captain Burton."
"And why?" asked Brenda, taken aback by this answer--the last she had expected to hear.
"To warn him," replied Van Zwieten, coolly. "Warn him--about what--against whom?"
"About my engagement to you--against myself."
"I am not engaged to you, but to him," said Brenda, almost with a cry of despair.
It seemed impossible to make this man understand how she hated him.
"I think you are engaged to me," said the Dutchman, deliberately. "You say no, but that is girl's talk. I am not to be beaten by a girl. I always get what I want, and I want you."
The wind rose again, and further conversation was impossible. Brenda walked on, praying for strength to escape this terrible man. She could not rid herself of the idea that the dead man was her own true lover. Van Zwieten might have seen him, as he said, might have quarreled with him and shot him. The fear chilled her heart, and when next the wind fell she again taxed Van Zwieten. "You killed him?" she cried.
"You will insist on that, but you are wrong. I never saw Captain Burton. He was not at the inn when I called."
"He had gone to town," said Brenda, breathless with joy.
"No, he had gone to the Rectory."
Brenda stopped short. Lady Jenny had gone to the Rectory also. Perhaps Harold had seen her, and had asked for her aid. While she was wondering if this might be so, there was a great shouting, and in the distance she saw the blaze of torches borne by many people. The wind made them flare furiously.
"Ach!" said Van Zwieten under his breath, "they know now."
In the high wind Brenda did not hear him. Guessing that the concourse meant the discovery of the body, she flew along the road like a lapwing. The procession was coming toward the Manor gates from the direction of the orchards. Some men were shouting, some women screaming, but the solid group surrounded by the red, smoking lights remained silent. Van Zwieten followed noiselessly, and reached the group almost as soon as Brenda.
"You see," he breathed in the girl's ear, "he is alive!"
Brenda gave a cry of joy and flung herself into the arms of the foremost man.
"Harold! Harold! Thank God you are safe!"
"Brenda! What are you doing here? Go back! go back!"
"No, no. Tell me who--who is dead. Who has been murdered?"
Seeing she knew so much, Harold signed to the men carrying the body to stop. They set down the gate on which it rested.
"Malet!" cried Brenda, as she recognized the features of the corpse. "It is Mr. Malet!"
CHAPTER IV.
A STRANGE PIECE OF EVIDENCE.
Next morning there was great excitement in Chippingholt. That a murder should have taken place in that peaceful hamlet was bad enough, but that the victim should be the lord of the Manor himself was terrible beyond words. The body was carried up to the house, and the rural constable, not feeling himself competent to deal with so unusual an incident, sent for instructions to the police station at Langton.
Toward midday an inspector and constables came over to investigate. The inspector proceeded at once to the Manor and interviewed Lady Jenny. Her coolness and powers of endurance in such trying circumstances amazed even this stolid official.
She was a small, slightly-built woman, with a sylph-like figure, dark blue eyes and dark hair. Her rose-leaf skin was wonderfully delicate of tint and texture, and she looked fragile enough to be blown away by a breath of wind. She was said to be both frivolous and emotional, a shallow creature, fond of nothing but pleasure and spending money. In this emergency every one expected her to relapse into hysteria, and to be quite incapable of any control over her feelings; but, to their surprise, she was all the opposite of this, and shed hardly a tear. She received the news of the death almost apathetically, directed the body to be laid out in the bed which her husband had occupied when alive, and herself calmed the emotions of the household.
Indeed, Wilfred Burton was far more upset about the murder than was Lady Jenny. He expressed his amazement at her wonderful self-control. He was lying on the sofa in her morning-room when he spoke to her on the subject.
"Some one must manage things," said the brave little woman, "and I know well enough you're incapable, poor dear! Harold could be of use, I know, but I don't want him just now. When I do, I'll send for him."
"He was here this morning, Jenny."
"I know he was; I saw him before you were up. He told me about the finding of poor Gilbert's body."
"Who found it?"
"Branksom, the lodgekeeper. He was coming home from the village about ten last night, and took the short path through the orchards. He stumbled over a body in the dark, and lit a match to see who it was, thinking it was
