And Lady Warren couldn’t abide It. She was always jawing him about it, and they had one awful quarrel, in his study. She was overheard to threaten to shoot him for vermin. A few minutes later he was found shot dead, with her rookrifle.

“Looks pretty bad,” murmured Stephen.

“Yes, everyone thought she’d stand in the Dock,” agreed Mrs. Oates. “There was some nasty questions asked at the Inquest. She said as how it was an accident, and her clever lawyer got her off… . But there was so much feeling about it that she went abroad-though she’d have gone, anyhow, as she fair hated the house.”

“Was it shut up afterwards?” asked Helen.

“No, the Professor left Oxford, and came here, and he’s been just the same as his father before him—always staying in, and never going out. Old Lady Warren only came back when she said she was ill.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Helen.

Mrs. Oates pursed up her lips and shook her head.

“Temper,” she said firmly.

“Oh, but Mrs. Oates, she must be ill, to have a nurse, and for the doctor to keep her in bed.” “He reckons she’s less trouble there. And she reckons she can give more trouble there. It’s a fair game for her to drive the nurses away, so as to get fresh ones in to bully.”

“But Miss Warren told me that the Professor was anxious about her heart,” persisted Helen. “Ah, but a man don’t forget the mother, that bore him,” declared Mrs. Oates, lapsing into sentiment.

“But she’s only his step-mother,” objected Stephen. “She has no children. Still, she must be expected to croakbe cause the vultures are gathering. Simone told methatthe old girl has made a Will, leaving her money to charities. She has a nasty perverted taste, and, apparently, likes Newton. Anyway, she makes him an allowance, which will cease at her death. That’s why he’s down here.”

“His pa sent for him,” explained Mrs. Oates.

Helen thought of the Professor’s glacial eye and Miss Warren’s detached manner. It was impossible to believe that they were swayed by financial considerations.

“Hullo,” said Stephen suddenly, as he swung himself up on the table. “What’s this?”

He drew from under him a wooden bar, which Helen took from him, rather guiltily.

“Sorry,” she said. “It belongs to the shutter in the pas sage. I’m glad you reminded me of it. I’ll try and fix the window.”

After what she had heard, she felt eager to finish the job, and get upstairs, to the blue room, as quickly as possible. She made a makeshift fastening with some string and a peg, and then hurried back to the kitchen.

To her surprise, Stephen was peeling onions with Mrs. Oates.

“She always makes me work,” he complained. “It’s her way of explaining a man in the kitchen, when Oates comes home… .