His mind would clear up, maybe, in course of time.  Meanwhile he remembered about Retlow-ALIASMuhlen.  It came to him in a flash.  The man was his cousin’s first husband; possibly her only legal husband, seeing that she may not have been able to secure sufficient evidence against him to justify a divorce—­had, indeed, lost sight of the scoundrel altogether for several years prior to her elopement with young Meadows.  It might well be that Muhlen had heard somehow or other of her presence on Nepenthe, and gone there for the purpose of renewing acquaintance with her.  But this foul crime!  For it cannot have been a sudden impulse on her part.  She had been playing with him—­leading him on.  His visits to the Old Town, at that quiet hour of the day. . . .  No.  She had carried out her infamous plan after ample premeditation.

Mr. Heard stayed at home, burdened with a hideous secret.  Practical questions began to assail him.  What should he do?  Wait! he concluded.  Something would be sure to turn up.  He was too dazed to think clearly, as yet.  He also disliked that fellow.  But one does not murder a man because one happens to dislike him.  One does not murder a man . . . foolish words, that kept on repeating themselves in his mind.

To pardon—­yes.  Mr. Heard could pardon to any extent.  The act of pardoning:  what did it imply?  Nothing more than that poor deluded mortals were ever in need of sympathy and guidance.  Anybody could pardon.  To pardon was not enough for a man of Mr. Heard’s ruthless integrity.  He must understand.  How understand, how interpret, a dastardly deed like this?  What could her motives have been?  Of what act of proposal could the man have been guilty to merit, even in her eyes, a fate such as this?  For evidently, one does not murder a man because one happens to dislike him—­

Denis came to enquire, in the course of the morning.  He was anxious to know how the bishop was feeling after yesterday’s attack of sunstroke.

“I have been blaming myself bitterly for dragging you out,” he began.  “I—­really—­”

“Don’t think about it!  I shall be better soon.  I’ll remain indoors to-day.”

“You are not looking quite yourself just yet.  What a fool I was!  I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Not worth talking about.  You’ll stay to luncheon?”

The news of Muhlen’s disappearance was spread about that same evening, and created no surprise whatever.  Foreigners had a knack of coming to the island and mysteriously vanishing again; it was quite the regular thing to run up accounts all around and then clear out.  Hotel-keepers, aware of this idiosyncrasy on the part of distinguished guests, arranged their scale of charges accordingly; they made the prices so high that the honest paid for the dishonest, as with English tailors.  The other tradespeople of the place—­the smiling confectioner, the simple-minded bootmaker and good-natured stationer, the ever-polite hosier—­they all worked on the same principle.  They recouped themselves by fleecing the more ingenuous of their clients.