Cyril looked out. Even a woman would have no difficulty in jumping to the ground.
"But it couldn't have been a burglar," said the vicar, "for what object could a thief have for destroying a portrait?"
"Destroying what portrait?" inquired Cyril.
"Oh, didn't you know that her ladyship's portrait was found cut into shreds?" said the coroner.
"And a pair of Lady Wilmersley's scissors lay on the floor in front of it," added the vicar.
"Let me see it," cried Cyril.
Going to a corner of the room the vicar pulled aside a velvet curtain behind which hung the wreck of a picture. The canvas was slashed from top to bottom. No trace of the face was left; only a small piece of fair hair was still distinguishable.
Cyril grasped Twombley's arm. Fair! And his mysterious protégée was dark!
"What—what was the colour of Lady Wilmersley's hair?" He almost stuttered with excitement.
"A very pale yellow," replied the coroner.