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In out of the darkness, somewhat wet and dishevelled, a girl entered, her eyes wide open and frightened, and her fingers still clutching a key which remained in the lock. Color began to ebb from her cheeks as she glanced around at the four men who lived and at the one who was dead.

"Fay!"

Lord Marcus pronounced the name, on a queer rising intonation to which his musical voice lent a sort of elfin beauty.

"Good God! look at that!"

Bluett was the second speaker. He pointed into shadows behind the girl; pointed to where three cats, a tabby and a black, led by a majestic persian, formed a phantom escort. Firth came to his senses.

"Huish! be off!" he cried, and swept towards the feline intruders.

They fled, uttering plaintive miaows, as the Chief Inspector, stepping past the horror-stricken girl, gently removed her fingers from the doorkey (she did not seem to be conscious of the fact that he was doing so) and slipped the key into his own pocket, closing the door. He turned, back to the silver panels, and looked across her head at the three men. Particularly, his penetrating glance searched the countenance of Lord Marcus.