He put up his hand instinctively for them to stop, and Deede Dawson at once obeyed the gesture.

Dunn noticed that the smile upon his lips was more gentle and winning than ever, the look in his eyes more dark and menacing.

“Well, Dunn, what is it?” he said as pleasantly as he always spoke.  “Mr. Allen,” he added to his companion, “this is my man, Dunn, I told you about, my gardener and chauffeur, and a very industrious steady fellow—­and quite trustworthy.”

He seemed to lay a certain emphasis on the last two words, and Allen put his head on one side and looked at Dunn with an odd, mixture of familiarity, suspicion, hesitation, and an uncertain assumption of superiority, but with no hint of recognition showing.

“Glad to hear it,” he said.  “You always want to know whom you can trust.”

“Mr. Clive has been murdered,” Dunn said abruptly.  “Poachers, it is said.  Did you know?”

“We heard about it as we came through the village,” answered Deede Dawson.  “Very sad, very dreadful.  It will be a great shock to poor Ella, I fear.  Take the car on to the garage, will you?” he added.

He drove on up the drive, and at the front door they alighted and entered the house together.  Dunn followed, and getting into the car, drove it to the garage, where he busied himself cleaning it.  As he worked he wondered very much what was the meaning of this sudden appearance on terms of friendship with Deede Dawson of this man Allen, whom he had last seen trying to break into the house at night.

Was Allen an accomplice of Deede Dawson, or a dupe, or, more probably, a new recruit?

At any rate, to Dunn it seemed that the crisis he had expected and prepared for was now fast approaching, and he told himself that if he had failed in Clive’s case, those others he was working for he must not fail to save.

“Looks as if Dawson’s plans were nearly ready,” he said to himself.  “Well, so are mine.”

He finished his work and shutting the garage door, he was turning away when he saw Ella coming towards him.

She was extremely pale, and her eyes seemed larger than ever, and very bright against the deathly whiteness of her cheeks.

She was wearing a blouse that was cut a little low, and he notice with a kind of terror how soft and round was her throat, like a column of pale and perfect ivory.

He hoped she would not speak to him, for he thought perhaps he could not bear it if she did, but she halted near by, and said: 

“This is very dreadful about poor Mr. Clive.”

“Very,” he answered moodily.

“Why should poachers kill him?” she asked.  “Why should they want to?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, watching not her but her soft throat, where he could see a pulse fluttering.  “Perhaps it wasn’t poachers,” he added.

She started violently, and gave a quick look that seemed to make yet more certain the certainty he already entertained.