“Is he sure of it?” Kelson asked.

“He won’t be positive till he has made the autopsy,” Henshaw answered.  “He merely suggests that it was a very awkward and altogether unlikely place for a man to wound himself.  Anyhow that guarded opinion is enough to strengthen my inclination to scout the idea of suicide.”

“Then,” said Kelson, “we are faced by the difficulty of the locked door.”

Henshaw made a gesture of indifference.

“That at first sight presents a problem, I admit,” he said, “but not so complete as to look absolutely insoluble.  I have, as you may be aware, made a study of criminology, and in my researches, which have included criminality, have come across incidents which to the smartest detective brains were at the outset quite as baffling.  Clement’s tragic end is a great blow to me, and I am not going quietly to accept the easy, obvious conclusion of suicide.  I knew and appreciated my brother better than that.  I mean to probe this business to the bottom.”

“You will be justified,” Kelson murmured.

“I think so—­by the result,” was the quick rejoinder.

Gifford spoke.  “What do you think was the real object in your brother coming down here?”

Henshaw looked at his questioner keenly before he answered.  “It is my opinion, my conviction, there was a lady in the case.  May I ask what prompted you to ask the question?”

Gifford shrugged.  “Some idea of the sort was in my own mind,” he replied, with a reserve which could scarcely be satisfying to Henshaw.

“Perhaps,” he said keenly, “you have also an idea who the lady was.”

Gifford shook his head.  “Not at all,” he returned promptly.

“Then why should the idea have suggested itself to you,” came the cross-examining rejoinder.

“Your brother was not a member of the Hunt, and it seemed to us—­curious.”

Henshaw took him up quickly.  “That he should come to the ball?  No doubt.  I will be perfectly frank with you, as I expect you to be with me.  It is perhaps not quite seemly to discuss my brother’s failings at this time, but we want to get at the truth about his death.  He had, I fear, rather irregular methods in his treatment of women.  One can hardly blame him, poor fellow.  His was a fascinating personality, at any rate so far as women were concerned.  They ran after him, and one can scarcely blame him if he acquired a derogatory opinion of them.  After all, he held them no cheaper than they made themselves in his eyes.  That note I looked at which came from his pocket was written by him to make an assignation.”

“Was it addressed?” Gifford put the question quickly, almost eagerly.

“No,” Henshaw answered.  “I wish it had been.  In that case we should be near the end of the mystery.”

Kelson was staring at the glib speaker with astounded eyes.  “Do you suppose a woman killed your brother?” he almost gasped.