A Blot on the Scutcheon

by Mabel Winifred Knowles

"Nay; after my father had—had been murdered."

Both listeners started.

"Murdered!"

They had not seen what lay in the shadows beyond the window.

"Yes," said Michael grimly, "murdered." And he pointed to where a dim outline was visible, huddled together on the hearth.

Morice sprang forward with a cry of dismay. He had been fond of Steenie Berrington.

"How did it happen? Who did it? Ah! Steenie, poor Steenie!"

It was pitiful sight enough on which he gazed down.

"That is what I asked Denningham here. He suggested that it was a case of parricide."

"He would have picked a quarrel. But had he done it himself?"