“He would get in, Sir Henry, he’d have shot one or the other of us if we hadn’t let him,” said one of the outer guards as Sir Henry and Cleek appeared.  “He would lie before the door and watch, sir—­he simply would; and God have mercy on him, poor chap; he was faithful to the last!”

“And the last might not have come for years, the fool, if he had only obeyed,” said Cleek; then lapsed into silence and stood staring at a dust of white flour on the red-tiled floor and at a thin wavering line that broke the even surface of it.

It was perhaps two minutes later when the entire household—­mistress, guests, and servants alike—­came trooping across the open space between the hall and the stables in a state of semi-deshabille, but in that brief space of time friendly hands had reverently lifted the body of the dead man from its place before the steel door, and Sir Henry was nervously fitting the key to the lock in a frantic effort to get in and see if Black Riot was safe.

“Dios! what is it?  What has happened?” cried Lady Wilding as she came hurrying in, followed closely by Sharpless and the Rev. Ambrose Smeer.  Then, catching sight of Logan’s body, she gave a little scream and covered her eyes.  “The trainer, Andrew, the trainer now!” she went on half hysterically.  “Another death—­another!  Surely they have got the wretch at last?”

“The mare!  The mare, Henry!  Is she safe?” exclaimed Sharpless excitedly as he whirled away from his cousin’s side and bore down upon the baronet.  “Give me the key—­you’re too nervous.”  And, taking it from him, unlocked the steel room and passed swiftly into it.

In another instant Black Riot was led out—­uninjured, untouched, in the very pink of condition—­and, in spite of the tragedy and the dead man’s presence, one or two of the guards were so carried away that they essayed a cheer.

“Stop that!  Stop it instantly!” rapped out Sir Henry, facing round upon them.  “What’s a horse—­even the best—­beside the loss of an honest life like that?” and flung out a shaking hand in the direction of dead Logan.  “It will be the story of last night over again, of course?  You heard his scream, heard his fall, but he was dead when you got to him—­dead—­and you found no one here?”

“Not a soul, Sir Henry.  The doors were all locked; no grille is missing from any window; no one is in the loft; no one in any of the stalls; no one in any crook or corner of the place.”

“Send for the constable—­the justice of the peace—­anybody!” chimed in the Rev. Ambrose Smeer at this.  “Henry, will you never be warned, never take these awful lessons to heart?  This sinful practice of racing horses for money—­”

“Oh, hush, hush!  Don’t preach me a sermon now, uncle,” interposed Sir Henry.  “My heart’s torn, my mind crazed by this abominable thing.  Poor old Logan!  Poor, faithful old chap!  Oh!” He whirled and looked over at Cleek, who still stood inactive, staring at the flour-dusted floor.  “And they said that no mystery was too great for you to get to the bottom of it, no riddle too complex for you to find the answer!  Can’t you do something?  Can’t you suggest something?  Can’t you see any glimmer of light at all?”