“Go up again!” said Steinmetz breathlessly.  “You must not go down here.”

Paul laid his hand on the broad arm stretched across the stairway.  For a moment it almost appeared to be a physical struggle, then Steinmetz stepped aside.

“I beg of you,” he said, “not to go down.”

And Paul went on, followed by Steinmetz, and behind them, Maggie.  At the foot of the stairs a broader passage led to the side door, and from this other passages opened into the servants’ quarters, and communicated through the kitchens with the modern building.

It was evident that the door leading to the grassy slope at the back of the castle was open, for a cold wind blew up the stairs and made the lamps flicker.

At the end of the passage Paul stopped.

Steinmetz was a little behind him, holding Maggie back.

The two lamps lighted up the passage and showed the white form of the Princess Etta lying huddled up against the wall.  The face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the beautiful dress and hair.  It could only be Etta.  Paul stooped down and looked at her, but he did not touch her.  He went a few paces forward and closed the door.  Beyond Etta a black form lay across the passage, all trodden underfoot and dishevelled.  Paul held the lamp down, and through the mud and blood Claude de Chauxville’s clear-cut features were outlined.

Death is always unmistakable, though it be shown by nothing more than a heap of muddy clothes.

Claude de Chauxville was lying across the passage.  He had been trodden underfoot by the stream of maddened peasants who had entered by this door which had been opened for them, whom Steinmetz had checked at the foot of the stairs by shooting their ringleader.

De Chauxville’s scalp was torn away by a blow, probably given with a spade or some blunt instrument.  His hand, all muddy and bloodstained, still held a revolver.

The other hand was stretched out toward Etta, who lay across his feet, crouching against the wall.  Death had found and left her in an attitude of fear, shielding her bowed head from a blow with her upraised hands.  Her loosened hair fell in a long wave of gold down to the bloodstained hand outstretched toward her.  She was kneeling in De Chauxville’s blood, which stained the stone floor of the passage.

Paul leaned forward and laid his fingers on the bare arm, just below a bracelet which gleamed in the lamplight.  She was quite dead.  He held a lamp close to her.  There was no mark or scratch upon her arm or shoulder.  The blow which had torn her hair down had killed her without any disfigurement.  The silken skirt of her dress, which lay across the passage, was trampled and stained by the tread of a hundred feet.

Then Paul went to Claude de Chauxville.  He stooped down and slipped his skilled fingers inside the torn and mud-stained clothing.  Here also was death.

Paul stood upright and looked at them as they lay, silent, motionless, with their tale untold.  Maggie and Steinmetz stood watching him.  He went to the door, which was of solid oak four inches thick, and examined the fastenings.  There had been no damage done to bolt, or lock, or hinge.  The door had been opened from the inside.  He looked slowly round, measuring the distances.