"You seem unusually thoughtful, Fetherston," remarked Trendall with some curiosity, as he seated himself at the table and resumed the opening of his letters which his friend's visit had interrupted. "What's the matter?"
"The fact is, I'm very much puzzled."
"About what? You're generally very successful in obtaining solutions where other men have failed."
"To the problem which is greatly exercising my mind just now I can obtain no solution," he said in a low, intense voice.
"What is it? Can I help you?"
"Well," he exclaimed, with some hesitation, "I am still trying to discover why Harry Bellairs died and who killed him."
"That mystery has long ago been placed by us among those which admit of no solution, my dear fellow," declared his friend. "We did our best to throw some light upon it, but all to no purpose. I set the whole of our machinery at work at the time—days before you suspected anything wrong—but not a trace of the truth could we find."
"But what could have been the motive, do you imagine? From all accounts he was a most popular young officer, without a single enemy in the world."
"Jealousy," was the dark man's slow reply. "My own idea is that a woman killed him."
"Why?" cried Walter quickly. "What causes you to make such a suggestion?"