e-cake. Polly knew that he was itching to talk police and murders, for he cast furtive glances at her from time to time, produced a bit of strin

t is?" he asked, poi

, not exactly pretty, but very gentle and childlike, with a strang

rd and tragic history which had broken this loving woman's heart. Lady Arthur Skelmerton! That name

t for idiotic blunders on the part of the police must have stood clear as daylight before the pub

continued without wait

from their owners. Lord Arthur Skelmerton, a very well-known figure in London society and in racing circles, had rented one of the fine houses which overlook the racecourse. He had en

e road called 'The Mount.' and the gardens of which extend as far as the racecourse, commanding a lovely view over th

ork, since she was the daughter of old Sir John Etty, the cocoa manufacturer, a rigid Quaker, who, it was generally said, kept the tightest possi

er father's wishes. But she was an only child, and after a good deal of demur and grumbling, Sir John, wh

since his daughter was being wed because of her wealth, that wealth should at least secure her own happiness. He refused to give Lady Arthur any capital, which, in spite of the most carefully worded settlements, would inevitably, soon

of intense excitement which followed the murder of Charles Lavender, and when the public eye was fi

with an heir, she settled herself down into a life of humble apology for her plebeian existence, atoning for it by condoning all his faults and forgiving all his vices, even to the

cards. After some successful betting at the beginning of his married life, he had started a racing

s attributed to the hardness of the course and to various other causes, but its immediate effect was to put Lord Arthur Skelmerton in what is pop

inners and suppers given by the confraternity of the Turf to celebrate the happy occasion. The next day was Friday, one of few important racing events, after which the brilliant and the shady

which Lady Arthur did not appear. After dinner the gentlemen settled down to bridge, with pretty stiff points, you may be sure. It had just struck ele

erton's grounds-upon a group of three men, two of whom seemed to be wrestling vigorously with one another, whilst the third was lying face do

rry up, sharp; the brut

lf with a violent jerk from his assailant's grasp, but made no attempt to run away. The consta

ied down the steps, and saw this poor fellow lying on the ground, with a knife sticking between his shoulder-blades, and his murderer,' he added, pointing to the man who stood quietly by w

swear I didn't do it. I saw him fall-I was coming along a couple of hundred yard

s quiet comment, and, still vigorously protesting his innocence, the accused allowed himse

d continued to declare his innocence, but had remarked, it appears, with grim humour, that he quite saw he was in a tight place, out of which, however, he would find it easy to extricate himsel

olice; no one doubted, however, but that the man in charge, who gave his name as George Higgins, had ki

ll exploding beneath the walls of the ancient cathedral city could more have astonished its inhabitants than the news which, at about five in the afternoon on the day of the inquest, spread like wildfire throughout the town. That news was that the inquest had concluded at thr