"Poisons, sir!" repeated Corsellis, grasping
the arms of his chair, as though about to rise, but
only leaning forward. "Explain yourself. Are
you aware of what you are saying?"

"Perfectly. You have a domestic in your
service, Sir George, called ' Morgan le Fay.'"

"The cook. And then?"

"Will you allow me to ask her a single
question?"

Corsellis, for reply, put his lips to a voice-
conductor in the wall:

"Send Morgan here."

A minute of profound silence followed. Then
Morgan le Fay appeared at the door, fresh and
rosy, curtseying, and smoothing the snow-white
apron that rather adorned than concealed her
plump and portly form. Sir George pointed to
her, looking at his visitors interrogatively.

"We are desirous to ask you one question,
my good woman," said Mr. Harlbutt. "My
friend and myself are magistrates. Don't agitate
yourself, I beg. It is simply this; a poisoned
ap—— Good Heavens! She has fainted!"

Morgan le Fay had swooned, and that so
suddenly that Mr. Fanshawe, who was nearest,
barely caught her as she reached the ground. Sir
George rang for assistance. Some of the maids
arrived, and the woman recovered.

"I—I knew it would come. God help us!"
gasped the poor creature, as she was borne away.

A gloomy silence followed this scene. It was
broken by Sir George himself.

"Well, gentlemen; as I presume the throwing
my cook into a fit was not the whole object
of your visit, in what may I satisfy you
further?"

"I will tell you, Sir George Corsellis," said
old Harlbutt. " It has been openly affirmed, in
the neighbourhood, that an individual known to
have been, ever since your arrival, resident in
your household, has suddenly disappeared, under
circumstances which warrant suspicion—only
suspicion, understand—of poison. When I
mentioned this disappearance, a few minutes ago,
you started. When I spoke of poison in the
presence of your servant, she fainted. And her
first words, on recovering, might easily bear a
construction most unfavourable to innocence."

He paused. Sir George looked at him for a
moment, as though in meditation. Then he
replied:

"There is truth in what you say. Gentlemen,
I will not conceal from you that I desire to close
this interview as speedily as courtesy permits.
In what way can I satisfy the extraordinary
suspicions to which you have apparently lent
yourselves? By the way, to which member of
my household do they point? To my wife?"

"No, Sir George. To the lady who is
supposed not to bear your name."

"Miss Blatchford. Well, gentlemen, be
pleased to follow me."

They passed up the wide staircase, and
through a portion of the house, until their
conductor stopped at a door which, softly opening
at his touch, admitted them to a kind of veiled
gallery, like an orchestra, from which they could
observe, unseen, the interior of one of the rich
saloons.

Two young ladies were there; one, engaged
in some delicate work that looked like a bride-
veil for a fairy; the other, reading aloud.

"Lady Corsellis, Miss Blatchford," said
Corsellis, in a subdued tone, pointing to them
in the order in which they have been
mentioned.

Squire Harlbutt almost started at the beauty
he saw before him. Desirée Lady Corsellis
(born de Ahna) was a woman almost too
fair to live. It seemed impossible that a
being so perfect in loveliness, so delicately
touched and retouched—as if Nature had for
once resolved upon a masterpiece—should be
subject to the common needs and ills of poor
mortality. A brightness radiated from her,
almost pleading indulgence for the ever-recurring
fancy that something more than human
resided in the shape called Lady Corsellis.

Of Miss Blatchford I will only say that, if
fairies are ever dark, she might have been their
queen. Small and slender as a child, the
perfect symmetry of her proportions, and the easy
finished grace of every movement, proved that
she was, in all respects save stature, as near the
perfection of womanhood as the most fastidious
critic could desire.

Sir George allowed his visitors two minutes
to contemplate the lovely picture before them,
then once more led the way down stairs. At
the door of the library he paused, as though
expecting his visitors to take their leave. But a
word whispered in Mr. Harlbutt's ear by his
colleague, as they came down stairs, had
determined the half-satisfied squire to go through
with the matter.

"A substitute?" Mr. Fanshawe had suggested,
pointing up-stairs.

"That there may be no further intrusions
on your privacy, Sir George," resumed Mr.
Harlbutt, "will you frankly permit Mr. Fanshawe
and myself to visit that portion of your premises
indicated by the village gossips as the place of
burial of—of the—the supposed victim?"

The colour mounted to Corsellis's brow.
He clutched the table against which he was
standing, manifestly struggling hard to preserve
an unruffled demeanour.

"Believe me, sir, nothing short of this will
completely refute the scandal. But you will
act as you please," added the old gentleman,
as he took up his hat.

Sir George made one turn in the apartment,
as if meditating on the course he should
adopt; then he replied:

"Be it so, gentlemen. I was as little aware
of the interest my proceedings were creating, as
of the vigilant watch kept upon me. My
unhappy secret is about to be disclosed, and since
it is useless to cast any obstacles in the way of
that investigation in which your duty, I
suppose, alone compels you to persevere, I will
myself aid in the discovery."

He rang the bell. It was answered by Troek,
the porter.