"I am as sure," he said, fervently, "that Caspar Brooke could not commit murder as I am sure that you could not. It is an absurdity to think of it."
"Then what has made people think of it?" asked Lesley. "How has it come about?"
Maurice paused. "There is a mystery somewhere," he said slowly, "which is a little difficult to fathom. Can you bear to hear the details? Your father told me to tell them to you—as gently as I could."
"Tell me all—all, please."
"Poor Oliver Trent was found dead early this morning on the stair of a lodging-house in Whitechapel. I have been to the place myself: it is now under the care of the police. He had been beaten about the head ... it was very horrible ... with a thick oaken staff or walking stick ... the stick lay beside him, covered with blood, where he was found. The stick was—was your father's, unfortunately: it must have been stolen by some ruffian for the purpose—and—and——"
He stopped short, as if the story were too hard to tell. Lesley sat watching his face, which was as pale as her own.
"Go on," she said, quickly. "What else?"
"A pocket-book—with gilt letters on the back: C. B. distinctly marked. That was also found on the stairs, as if it had dropped from the pocket of some man as he went down. And it is proved—indeed, your father tells me so—that he went to that house last night and did not leave it until nearly midnight."
"But why was he there?"
"He went to see the man and woman who lived in the top room of that lodging-house. I think you know the woman. She was once your maid——"