there, and recognized, horror and consternation. With no further evidence than that furnished by his own powers of perception, he knew that the mystery of this woman’s death was as inexplicable to Henry Leroux as it was inexplicable to himself.
He was a masterful man, with the gray eyes of a diplomat, and he knew Leroux as did few men. He laid both hands upon the novelist’s shoulders.
“Brace up, old chap!” he said; “you will want all your wits about you.”
“I left her,” began Leroux, hesitatingly—“I left”…
“We know all about where you left her, Leroux,” interrupted Cumberly; “but what we want to get at is this: what occurred between the time you left her, and the time of our return?”
Exel, who had walked across to the table, and with a horror-stricken face was gingerly examining the victim, now exclaimed:—
“Why! Leroux! she is—she is…undressed!”
Leroux clutched at his dishevelled hair with both hands.
“My dear Exel!” he cried—“my dear, good man! Why do you use that tone? You say ‘she is undressed!’ as though I were responsible for the poor soul’s condition!”
“On the contrary, Leroux!” retorted Exel, standing very upright, and staring through his
