"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Glass, I fancy that was the front-door bell," interrupted Simmons, moving towards the door.

A few moments later a police-sergeant, with several satellites, was ushered into the study, and in the hall outside the voice of Miss Fletcher, urgently desiring to be told the meaning of this invasion, was upraised in some agitation. Neville slid out of the study, and took his aunt by the arm. "I'll tell you. Come into the drawingroom."

"But who are all those men?" demanded Miss Fletcher. "They looked to me exactly like policemen!"

"Well they are," said Neville. "Most of them, anyway. Look here, Aunt Lucy -'

"We've been burgled!"

"No -' He stopped. "I don't know. Yes, perhaps that was it. Sorry, aunt, but it's worse than that. Ernie has met with an accident."

He stumbled a little over the words, looking anxiously at his aunt.

"Try not to mumble so, Neville dear. What did you say?"

"I said an accident, but I didn't mean it. Ernie's dead."

"Dead? Ernie?" faltered Miss Fletcher. "Oh no! You can't mean that! How could he be dead? Neville, you know I don't like that sort of joke. It isn't kind, dear, to say nothing of its being in very questionable taste."

"It isn't a joke."

She gave a gasp. "Not. Oh, Neville! Oh, let me go to him at once!"

"No use. Besides, you mustn't. Terribly sorry, but there it is. I'm a trifle knocked-up myself."

"Neville, you're keeping something back!"

"Yes. He's been murdered."

Her pale, rather prominent blue eyes stared at him. She opened her mouth, but no words passed her lips. Neville, acutely uncomfortable, made a vague gesture with his hands. "Can I do anything? I should like to, only I don't know what. Do you feel faint? Yes, I know I'm being incompetent, but this isn't civilised, any of it. One has lost one's balance."