in which the murderer had escaped.  And that the man who had attacked Mrs. Jasher was a murderer could be seen from the stream of blood that ran slowly from Mrs. Jasher’s breast.  Apparently she had been stabbed in the lungs, for the wound was on the right side.  There she lay, poor woman, in her tawdry finery, crumpled up, battered and bruised, dead amongst the ruins of her home.  Jane immediately began to scream again.

“Stop her, Hope,” cried Random, who was kneeling by the body and feeling the heart.  “Mrs. Jasher is not dead.  Hold your noise, woman, and go for a doctor.”  This was to Jane, who, prevented from screaming, took to whimpering.

“I had better go,” said Hope quickly; “and I’ll go to the Fort and alarm the men.  Perhaps they may catch the man.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Of course not,” said Archie indignantly.  “I only caught a glimpse of him by the feeble light of a lucifer match.  Then he leaped through the window and I after him.  I made a grab at him, but lost him in the mist.  I don’t know in the least what he is like.”

“Then how can anyone arrest him?” snapped Random, raising Mrs. Jasher’s head.  “Give what alarm you like, but race for Robinson up the village.  We must save this poor woman’s life, if only to learn who killed her.”

“But she isn’t dead yet—­she isn’t dead yet,” wailed Jane, clapping her hands, while Hope, knowing the value of time, promptly ran out of the house to get further assistance.

“She soon will be,” said Sir Frank, whose temper was not of the best at so critical a moment in dealing with a fool.  “Go and bring me brandy at once, and afterwards linen and hot water.  We must do our best to staunch this wound and revive her.”

For the next quarter of an hour the man and the woman labored hard to save Mrs. Jasher’s life.  Random bound up the wound in a rough and ready fashion, and Jane fed the pale lips of her mistress with sips of brandy.  Mrs. Jasher gradually became more alive, and a faint sigh escaped from her lips, as her wounded bosom rose and fell with recovered breath.  When Sir Frank was in hopes that she would speak, she suddenly relapsed again into a comatose state.  Luckily at that moment Archie returned with young Dr. Robinson at his heels, and also was followed by Painter, the village constable, who had luckily been picked up in the fog.

Robinson whistled as he looked at the insensible woman.

“She’s had a narrow squeak,” he muttered, lifting the body with the assistance of Random.

“Will she recover?” questioned Hope anxiously.

“I can’t tell you yet,” answered the doctor; and with Sir Frank he carried the heavy body of the widow into her bedroom.  “How did it happen?”

“That is my business,” said Painter, who had followed, and who was now filled with importance.  “You look after the body, sir, and I’ll question these gentlemen and the servant.”