"Well, I fancy Sakers fired the shot. But who knifed him I can't say."
Frank rose, and walking to the window stretched himself. "It's a gruesome story," said he; "and what did Tamaroo mean?"
"I can't tell you. That was the one word the poor fellow said before he was stretched a corpse. Well, Frank, after that I got sick of the West and came home. A strange romance?"
"Very. But I can't make top nor tail of the business. It is strange that Anchor should have been both shot and stabbed as Starth was."
"For that reason I tell the story. Keep it to yourself, Frank. I do not care about wearing my heart on my sleeve."
"I'll say nothing," assented Lancaster, "and you know quite enough to round on me if I do. I say"--he peered through the window into the moonlight--"who is the lady?"
Jarman rose, and looked over Frank's shoulder. There was a white figure crossing the lawn. "It's Mildred--Miss Starth."
Frank made for the door. "I'll go to my bedroom," he said. "I am not able to meet her yet, as I might give myself away. Besides, she may wish to talk to you about the case."
"H'm! Yes, it's just as well. Clear out. I'll let you know all that is needful."
So Frank disappeared, and Jarman opened the front door to his visitor. Mildred looked very weary. She wore a white dress with black bows, and saw him looking sideways at it when she entered the study.