“Selina,” said Mrs. Octagon quietly, “go on.  There is nothing bad I don’t expect to hear about Selina.  What is it?”

“She is dead!”

“Dead!” cried Juliet, clasping her hands nervously.  “No!”

“Not only dead, but murdered!” cried Mr. Octagon.  His wife suddenly dropped into her throne and, being a large fleshly woman, her fall shook the room.  Then she burst into tears.  “I never liked Selina,” she sniffed, “even though she was my own sister, but I am sorry—­I am dreadfully—­oh, dear me!  Poor Selina!”

By this time all the dramatic posing of Mrs. Octagon had gone by the wall, and she showed herself in her true colors as a kind-hearted woman.  Juliet hurried to her mother and took one of her hands.  The elder woman started, even in the midst of her tears.  “My child, your hand is as cold as ice,” she said anxiously.  “Are you ill.”

“No,” said the girl hurriedly and evidently trying to suppress her emotion, “but this dreadful news!  Do you remember what you said?”

“Yes—­but I never expected I would be a true prophetess,” sobbed Mrs. Octagon.  “Peter,” with sudden tartness, “why don’t you give me the details.  Poor Selina dead, and here am I in ruby velvet!”

“There are not many details to give,” said Peter, reading from the newspaper, “the police are keeping quiet about the matter.”

“Who killed her?”

Juliet rose suddenly and turned on the electric light, so that her step-father could see to read more clearly.  “Yes,” she said in a firm voice, belied by the ghastly whiteness of her face, “who killed her?”

“It is not known,” said Mr. Octagon.  “Last night she entertained a few friends—­to be precise, three, and she was found by her new parlor-maid dead in her chair, stabbed to the heart.  The weapon has not been found, nor has any trace of the murderer been discovered.”

“Entertained friends,” muttered Mrs. Octagon weeping, “the usual lot.  Mr. Hale, Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy—­”

“Yes,” said Peter, somewhat surprised, “how do you know?”

“My soul,” whispered me,” said Mrs. Octagon tragically, and becoming melodramatic again, now that the first shock was over.  “One of those three killed her.  Who struck the fatal blow?—­the villain Hale I doubt not.”

“No,” cried Juliet, “it was not Mr. Hale.  He would not harm a fly.”

“Probably not,” said her mother tartly, “a fly has no property—­ your Aunt Selina had.  Oh, my dear,” she added, darting away at a tangent, “to think that last night you and Basil should have been witnesses of a melodrama at the Marlow Theatre, at the very time this real tragedy was taking place in the rural country.”

“It’s a most dreadful affair,” murmured Peter, laying aside the paper.  “Had I not better go down to Rose Cottage and offer my services?”

“No,” said Mrs. Octagon sharply, “don’t mix yourself up in this dreadful affair.  Few people know that Selina was my sister, and I don’t want everyone to be condoling with me on this tragedy.”