“Yes,” I observed. “This is indeed the Devil’s work.”
The mystery surrounding the tragic affair increased hourly.
I examined the brass box, and upon the lid saw a strange discolouration. It was the mark of a finger—perhaps the mark of that mysterious hand, the touch of which had the potency to consume the object with which it came in contact. I placed the box back upon the table, and could not resist the strange chill which crept over me. The mystery was a more uncanny one than I had ever heard of.
“Now tell me, Ash,” I said at last. “Did your master ever entertain any lady visitors here?”
“Very seldom, sir,” the man answered. “His married sister, Lady Hilgay, used to come sometimes, and once or twice his aunt, the Duchess, called, but beyond those I don’t recollect any lady here for certainly twelve months past.”
“Some might have called when you were absent, of course,” I remarked.
“They might,” he said; “but I don’t think they did.”
“Have you ever seen any letters that you’ve posted addressed to a lady named Cloud?”
He reflected, then answered—
“No, sir. The name is an unusual one, and if I’d ever seen it before I certainly should have remembered it.”