Miss Mulchop picked herself up off the floor.

"Oh..OH!" she gasped as her eyes rested upon the dead body of the constable splayed just a few feet from her.

She'd jumped up as soon as the lights had gone out, hoping to find the switch. Unfortnately she'd tripped over someone else's foot. Well, in her panic she wasn't positive. It could have been her own foot. Could you blame her?

She straightened her skirt & "Ahemed" authoritively.

"Well I guess it's up to me then?" She walked determinedly over to the body & pulled the paper from his hand. "We'll just see then ... "

Dessard stood up.

"There's nothing we can do for him," he said to the doctor. He looked down at Welles disdainfully. "Fool. I told him not to keep that information to himself. What have you got there, Miss Mulchop?" he asked the woman as she bent to retrieve the paper.

Undortunately, all Miss Mulchop had found was the torn corner of the piece of paper ... Clearly the Constable had been holding it and it had been ripped off ...

"Oh poo.." Miss Mulchop put her hands on her hips giving the constable a dirty look.

Doctor Lawrence looked back and forth between the constable and Madame Escuskiovna.

"This can't be happening," he muttered, even as he automatically moved to the constable's side. Despite Dessard's evaluation, he had to be sure for himself that the constable was well and truly dead ... and while the most cursory of checks confirmed this, he kept looking for any sign of life.

"Damn your hide, you were supposed to catch the killer, not get killed. Now the scandal is going to be even bigger, and there's really no chance the details aren't going to come out, is there?"

Uneasily, he stood and moved towards Escuskiovna. It would be a long time before the authorities could be contacted again. They were going to have to find the killer themselves. His mind churned as he moved through the motions of checking the woman's condition.

As far as he could tell, Madame Escuskiovna had merely fainted, presumably from a shock of some sort. Whether it was due to the sudden rupture of psychic contact or for some other reason was, of course, outside the doctor's field of competence.

Dessard bent to examine the hankerchief, specifically looking for a monogram of some sort... There was clearly an "S" on the handkerchief ... but something else as well. Above the "S" there were a series of tiny pinpricks, as though the design once had another part, but that part of the embroidery had been carefully pulled out, leaving only the faint pin pricks behind. It was, unfortunately, impossible to make out what the missing part of the design would have been ...

Dessard's gaze traveled from Secord to Smythe to Staughton and finally to Oswald Skeffington-Nottle.

"I believe one of you gentlemen lost this."

"Not mine, old boy," said Oswald, and pulled out his own, also monogrammed, but with the letters OSN, and all interwined in a row.

Miles glanced across. "Not mine. I feel monograms are a tad pretenious. It's one thing to dress well, yet another to show off about it."

Secord's eyes swept the room. He didn't let the horror of the situation effect him...yet. He saw the bit of paper in the constable's hand, and the flare up in the fire place. He lunged at the fireplace to try and quickly fish out and snuff out the fire from the burning paper. The paper was once thick and heavy ... but now it was light, almost crumbling as Secord retrieved it, burning his fingers in the process.

Oswald rose swiftly and walked over to Secord as he knelt by the fire ... Looking over his shoulder, he could make out words ... They both read them as the paper finely crumbled and fell to the hearth as black ash ... Oswald looked up, bewildered.

"It ... it was a birth certificate. It must have been the one Hermione Smithson was holding as she dies. But ... it said that Wallace Emerson was her father!"

"Ouch!" said Miles, nursing his singed finger prints. He walked over and poured himself a drink ... for its medicinal properties. He considered whether what he had just read could mean in relationship to the mayhem gripping this old manor house.

"That might explain why Miss Smithson would murder Anja Ericksson, but then who would murder her? And the constable, to keep it quiet?" Dessard asked rhetorically.

Still, his eyes rested on Emerson. "Is that the betrayal your wife referred to, Mr. Emerson? A secret daughter from an old affair? Oswald, whom does it list as Hermione's mother?"

Oswald said, bewildered, "Mrs Emerson."

"My first wife," said Emerson heavily. "A shrew of a woman ... we had a daughter ... I walked out thirty years ago when the kid was only two ... "

He saw Lucinda's eyes on him and said weakly, "I sent them money regularly. I ... I just lost touch."

"Oh, Wally," said Lucinda, with deep reproach, "how could you be so cruel? That poor girl - becoming involved in Anja's fan club so she could see her father! Remember what Mr Secord told us - that she wasn't really a fan of Anja's at all! That must have been why she was so upset when you were upset when Anja was killed!"

"Unless she killed Anja herself," said Reggie Staughton.

Lucinda turned on him angrily. "And then killed herself? And then came back from the grave to kill the poor Constable? Summoned by our seance no doubt! How can you say such a thing? Is it to throw suspicion from yourself, Mr S ...? Let's not forget that shirt in your room!"

"Poor darling Anja ... and poor Hermione ... and now ... now the Constable! Why doesn't someone do something?" And she began to cry.

"Someone ... was it you, Major Dessard, or Dr Lawrence ... said something earlier," said Oswald thoughtfully. "That it was almost like there were two murderers ... because the murders were so different. And then ... someone else said ... That perhaps the reasons for the murder were different. And that was why the methods were so different.

"That the first was ... planned. And that the second was panic. So ... what do we make of this one?"

Doctor Lawrence waved a hand in dismissal. "If the second was panic, then this one could certainly be panic. The constable had the birth certificate and was closing in." He paused and rubbed his brow. "Or, if they were particularly ruthless...to muddy the trail. The birth certificate is irrelevant, but this makes it seem all-important. In either case we need to contact the authorities again...but where are the nearest police now?"

"I'd say this last one was planned panic," suggested Miles, "The killer knew the Constable was closing in on him...or her, and new that something had to be done sooner or later. Seeing the darkness as an opportunity, the killer improvises: Grabs up the candlestick and makes a widow out of this poor man's wife."

"Yes," Davyd said drily around a cigarette. "It's almost as if the person were under the influence of some controlled substance in the second murder..."

He cast a significant look at the Doctor.

Dr. Lawrence glared at Smyth. "You were in the trenches, you had to have seen morphine used. You should know better than that. Hashish, that I could believe...but I haven't seen any other signs of it around here."

He stared off into space. In an extremely low voice, he added, "I didn't kill anyone, but if I thought I could get away with wiping all of you out, I just might try."

The craving was getting far worse.

Miles looked around the room. "Now we all saw Lucinda knock over that first candlestick. Is it still near where it fell? If not, it could seem that would be the murder weapon, and Miss Lucinda would have some explaining to do. And if it is where it fell, who was nearest the other candlestick before it was grabbed up and used as a weapon?"

Lucinda stopped crying to glower at him. "What ... what a horrid thing to say to me, Mr Secord!" she gasped. "Look ... there's the candlestick I knocked over ... right in front of Madame Escuskiovna! The other one ... Well, Mr Secord, that was an awful lot closer to you!

"And," she added, as always scrupulously fair, "closer to anyone that end of the table. That is the Major, Mr Staughton, Dr Lawrence or Miss Blume. Why ... even the Viscount or Mr Smyth could have reached it!

"Although now I suppose you'll say that because both candlesticks are round, doubtless the one from your end of the table rolled right into my hand?"

Her eyes flashing and bosom heaving with indignation, she looked perfectly magnificent. Miles returned the glare with a smile, as he admired the view.

"Well there you are. Then it is unlikely that your stick was the murder weapon. That would mean that the killer took advantage of the confusion caused when you jumped up to dowse the other light, and whammo."

He raised his glass to Lucinda, "Hey, here's another thought: Those candles had been burning for some time, hadn't they? That would suggest that each would have a good supply of melted wax accumulated. It seems to me that anyone snatching up a candle stick, and then brandishing it around like a baseball bat...or a cricket bat...would probably get a fairly decent dose of that wax spilled on their clothing. Shall we take a look?"

And as he said it, his eyes scanned across the faces in the room.

"A good plan, Secord ... except for possibly one thing," said Oswald. "The murder might not have used the handkerchief just to hide his fingerprints."

He took the handkerchief and spread it out ... or at least tried to. The fabric at the far corner from the mongram was gummed together with thick wax.

"You see?" said Oswald. "He covered the end of the candle with the handerchief to prevent wax getting on his clothes .. and then around the candlestick to prevent fingerprints! Fortunately for him ... but unfortunately for us, the candle had burnt low enough for him to do that ... "

"That is interesting." replied Secord, "That would increase the amount of premeditation involved with this effort. It's obvious that since no one considered this possibility until I mentioned it, except the killer, that the killing of the constable must have been planned well in advance. I doubt anyone would have thought of that possibility if it was a spur of the moment action.

"Perhaps the killer knew there would be a chance at dousing the lights. If the supposition that there are two killers at work is true, one member of the team could put out one light, while the other member takes care of the other and makes the kill."

He thought about it for a moment, and then added, "Actually, that's a theory that I favor, at the moment."

"A capital idea Secord." Dessard agreed. He had listened with dismay at Oswald's revelation about the candlewax on the hankerchief.

"Back to square one, then," the major sighed. "Very well, until we get the authorities to confirm the identities of everyone here, I suggest that the suspects be locked in their rooms.

"Someone can try to get through to Scotland Yard via wire in the morning."

Major Dessard walked to the bar and poured himself a drink of whiskey. As he stood at the bar, thoughts raced through his head: about the behavior of certain people over the last few days; the victims' relationships and why they might have been killed...

And an idea popped into his head, not surprising for a man motivated by greed...

"Let's look at the facts shall we? We have three victims. What did they have in common? Seemingly nothing...

"But now we know that both Anja and Hermione Smithson were heirs - of Wallace Emerson ... and presumably one would inherit Staughton Hall on Emerson's death.

"But if they both predeceased Emerson, what then? Who would take title?

"I have a theory. A plan of revenge, and a desire to get back one's ancestral home, after one's father was driven to suicide after losing his estate at a game of chance. Meaning that our murderer was one of Lord Staughton's children, one of Reggie's cousins.

"The clues: a military dagger, belonging to Davyd Smythe, was used to kill Hermione Smithson, actually Hermione Emerson. Anja Ericksson was poisoned; perhaps the killer hoped that Wallace Emerson would also imbibe the fatal drink. The killer later discovered that Hermione was another heir, and killed her in a panic. A bloodied shirt, bearing a tag labeled 'Staughton' is discovered, but I believe that the shirt did not in fact belong to Reginald, but to his cousin, Lord Staughton's son.

"Only two men here could be Lord Staughton's son. One potential candidate is an old hand at cards, like Lord Staughton presumably was. The other showed an aversion to games of chance, perhaps because of his father's penchant for gambling. Both served in the Great War, as we know Lord Staughton's son did. With all the death and mayhem in the trenches, it would be simple to assume another man's identity, as was demonstrated by Mr. Secord's story of how he was dressed as a German officer. And in assuming another's identity, to procure an invitation to Christmas at Staughton Hall, to exact revenge for a father's death years ago."

A .32 pistol appeared in Dessard's hand, at the midpoint between Miles Secord and Davyd Smythe.

"So, Mr. Smythe, Mr. Secord, which one of you is the murderer?"

Davyd raised an eyebrow and looked at the gun. He was unimpressed.

"I think you'll find that your Colonial methods seem a little crude here in England... Has anybody got a light?"

Jane-- again-- screamed.

"OH!" Miss Mulchop jumped back a step as Dessard pulled the gun out. "Really! Major Dessard, haven't we had enough of that! I find the waving the gun thing highly..highly ...

"Well you're making me jumpy," dhe finished, with alot less gusto than she'd started out with. "As if I wasn't already."

The last was said more to herself than anyone else. Batting her lashes nervously she decided now was a really good time for a drink.

"My dear Miss Mulchop, three people have been murdered in the past 48 hours, the last of whom was killed simply because he knew too much. I do not intend to be the fourth," Stephen Dessard replied.

"Put that away!" insisted Jane, nearly incoherent with fear. "If it's all about a birth certificate, it could well be someone's not going by his real name!" She stifled a squeal as her imagination began to get the best of her. "Or it could be you - you've got an 'S' in your name, too - Oh!" she cried, throwing her arms up defensively in front of herself (as if she could somehow stop a speeding bullet).

Doctor Lawrence was bothered far less by the sudden drawing of a gun than he had been by most of this 'holiday,' and he considered the points that had just been raised.

"Mmm. The shirt not Staughton's? I mean, not Reginald's? We've got a...clothier among us. If you're through with your superstitious panic, Fenwick, why don't you do a quick check and see if you can eliminate any of our three esses as the owner of the bloody shirt."

He could hear the harshness in his own tone, but tried to fight it down, along with the pounding headache and nausea that were rising. Taking another dose now was one of the worst ideas he could think of, so he had to hold it off. Just a bit longer. Just a bit.

The Viscount sat motionless at the table, staring across it with a blank expression on his face. He seemed to take no notice of the Doctor's request, as he had seemingly taken no notice of anything that had occurred following the lights coming back on. Then he stirred, slowly, and rose to his feet.

Shuffling away from the table, his gaze low on the floor before him, the small man passed everyone by without a word, heading for the hallway.

Miles arched his eyebrows in surprise at this turn of events, and then he chuckled, "Dressard, you're nuts. Why would I volunteer to help go get that poor constable, just so I could bash his head in later?

"Besides, accepting for a moment that the rest of your assumptions are somewhat accurate ... which is a major assumption, why would the missing heir have to be a son? Any one of us, including the women, could easily have stolen Reginald's shirt, dabbed it in blood and hidden it in his room. For that matter, why couldn't it be Reginald?"

He considered. "And why does everyone think I 'have an aversion to gambling' and cards. I know at least 3 other people were in the room when I was playing cards just the other night.

"Hell....pardon ladies...for all I know the killer could be Smythe...or any of the rest of you, but if you keep that gun pointed at me Dressard, you'd better put some salt on it because I'll be feeding it to you presently."

Dessard just smiled grimly. "I don't think so. The fact remains that someone here isn't who they pretend to be. And your point is well taken; it could be a daughter; Staughton had a daughter as well, if I recall. In fact, they could both be here." He paused, considering.

"That might fit, as Oswald and the doctor noted - one sibling premeditates killings, the other acts on the spur of the moment. If that is the case, I think that Jane Blume is the most likely suspect. Why don't the three of you, Secord, Smythe and Blume, move slowly together while the rest of us figure out just what to do," Dessard suggested, motioning Smythe and Janey towards Secord with the point of the pistol.

"Why - that's just not fair!" gasped Lucinda. "Hortense Staughton must be thirty if she's a day - and Jane must be much, much younger than that! Just look at her! And you're scaring her to death!"

Jane went white as a sheet. She took slow, terrified, backwards steps, following the directions of Dessard's pistol towards Secord and Smythe. Her eyes - round as saucers - overflowed with tears. Her mouth opened and shut but nothing came out.

"Tell him, Jane! Tell him how old you are!" urged Lucinda.

"I can't - I won't!" she wailed miserably.

She turned to Secord and Smythe pleadingly, meeting their eyes with hers. "If ... if one of you is the murderer, I beg you... ple-ease! Please don't ... don't hurt me. Please ... I'm just ...

"All of you ... " she implored, whirling on the larger group. "I don't want to die here; don't let them! Don't let them!"

She took a ragged, hiccoughy breath. She looked at them each in turn, and - as if in a trance - stretched her hand out to Davyd for support.

"Davyd wouldn't hurt me," she whispered hoarsely, "... even if he does turn out to be the murderer..."

The other accusations had affected Davyd as water on a greased duck, but now his eyes widened in disbelief, taking Jane's hand, he squeezed it, forced her to look at him.

"What are you saying, Jane? You can't honestly believe any of this circumstancial idiocy?"

Her eyes were a little wild, and she blinked away silent tears so she could see.

"Davyd ..." she said shakily, then fell against his chest, and buried her face there, sobbing.

"Someone is!" she protested. "Someone's done it, and I don't know who! You'll protect me, won't you? You wouldn't let anything happen to me, would you?"

Secord rolled his eyes at this display. He sighed deeply.

"You're a fool Dessard, and insane if you think I'm going to let you lock me up. Your theories are based on suppositions without evidence. Your conclusions are pointlessly limited. For that matter you might even be the killer yourself...As a matter of fact, I see where this whole scene would be perfect for the real killer. Three dead bodies, someone has got to take the fall. Trump up some evidence to point suspicion in a certain direction. It doesn't have to be solid evidence, it just has to hold up long enough to come up with a reason to shoot someone. Now with being unable to defend himself, the victim is assumed to be the killer, and the real killer is free to go his way. That would be a very good plan for you Dressard.

"As to your theories: We have no evidence that this belive this has anything to do with the estate. This could be a crime of passion, or some other motive we don't have a clue about. Your entire supposition is nonsense.

"And the 'proof' that you have presented to point to one of us is the killer consists entirely of pointless conjecture. Conjecture of that nature could point to anyone in this room, including yourself. If it comes to that, I'm the least likely candidate for your dementia. I'm an American, you fool. I happen to come from a prominent family that have lorded over the upperclass society of Long Island, New York for over a hundred years."

Secord added "Go ahead and shoot me, if you want...in this room full of witnesses."

He slowly pulled his coat open, "And as you all can see, I am plainly unarmed. So shoot me, of course that would make you a murderer, no matter what else anyone in this house has done. Of course you could come to your senses, and put that gun away, until we have figured out what is going on. But in any case, I've had enough of this nonsense."

He turned his back to Dessard, and crossed the room to get himself another drink.

"If you're innocent, Secord, then you have nothing to worry about. The bobbies'll sort it all out. If you're not..." Dessard left the words hanging in the air.

Miles continued pouring his drink. "Oh, I'm not worried about the law. I'm worried about some mad man pointing a pistol at me and letting the real killer go about his, hers, or their business killing other people."

A voice spoke up from near the door.

"Wait!" said Reggie Staughton.

All eyes turned towards him .

Raising a hand, pulling Jane slightly closer to him, Davyd spoke up. "Look, all of this speculation isn't getting us anywhere! We need the law enforcement here immediately; Dessard take me and Miles with you if you insist on holding that toy, but can we move before there's another death?"

Jane pressed up closer to him still, and shook like a little girl.

Reginald cleared his throat, his face pale. "There doesn't have to be another death. I know who the murderer must be. I know who is the real Symon Staughton."

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE!" Davyd screamed. "What is this obsession with the Staughton boy? Are we going to stand around here until that damned gun goes off?"

Reggie stepped forward.

"I recogised him yesterday," he said. "During the card game. The ring he was wearing ... it's an old family one. And then his face... But I didn't say anything. For all I knew, he had come back to the old house for the same reason I had done - curiousity ... and wanting to see what vulgarisms that bastard Emerson had introduced.

"It wasn't until Hermione Smithson was killed that I realised his reasons for coming back were very different from mine."

Davyd looked down, staring in reproachful disbelief at his hand. With a swift movement, he tore the ring off and threw it at Reginald.

Jane winced at the sudden movement, but pressed herself even further against Davyd, if it was possible.

"No... no..." she murmured, teary-eyed.

"So what if I changed a name that's become another word for 'reckless stupidity'?" he spat. "Does that make me a killer?" He looked around the room. "DOES IT?"

"No," said Reggie steadily, "but you tried to frame me for the killing. That was what told me it had to be you.

"Because I knew that shirt wasn't mine. It was ripped off in a panic and thrust behind the radiator to make me look guilty. But it wasn't my shirt. And that told me that it was you who killed Hermione Emerson. Because who else would have an old shirt with the name tag, Staughton?"

" We're in Little Staughton Hall!" snapped Davyd. "Anyone could have come across a Staughton shirt."

Lucinda gave a little gasp. "No! When Wallace took the hall, he brought in all fresh linen. I remember Anja told me."

"And besides," added Reggie, "it was an unpremeditated crime. Why would the murderer have wasted time finding an old shirt to wear when he reached out and stabbed fast?"

"Oh, this is purely circumstancial," protested Dyved. "There's no way that you can accuse me of the second murder when you can't even link me to the first!"

"You had opportunity," said Oswald slowly. "I remember, you left the dining room ahead of ethe other men ... and Miss Blume said you joined her before any of us. That means you could have been on your own in the morning room with the tray for some minutes."

"Anybody could have!"

"And you said at dinner that you knew what Bengers looked and tasted like," added Lucinda. "You described it to Anja."

"As for motive ... " added Oswald, "we've all been blinding ourselves to one simple fact. Because Anja is dead, we've all been assuming she might have been the target. But really, it's much simpler than that. The target was Wallace Emerson.

"And the motive was vengeance ... for ruining Lord Staughton ... and driving him to suicide."

Reggie Staughton sighed. "I fear so. And ... perhaps I would have said nothing ... but I realised he was trying to frame me. I was still deciding what to do ... when he killed the Constable. I shall always blame myself for the third death."

"Have you finished?" Davyd asked impatiently. "Because when this foolishness is over there's going to be at least one charge of slander."

Oswald looked up.

"There is one way we can prove this," he said. "Whoever used the candletick to bludgeon the Constable wrapped his handkerchief around it, and then gripped it."

Several people, including Davyd, nodded.

Oswald rose and walked to the table, lifting the scond candlestick.

"Now, he held it like this." He inverted the candlesetick and gripped it tightly.

Lucinda gasped. "So ... his thumb and first two fingers held the metal of the candlestick, but his last two fingers were on the wax of the candle!"

Oswald nodded.

"Exactly," he said. "And while the handerchief prevents any prints being visible, the mould of the fingers is clearly there.

"So," he finished, looking hard at Davyd Smyth, "it should be an easy enough matter to see who held the candle stick ... their fingers will fit exactly into the mould.

"And I think Mr Smyth should be the first to try."

Davyd held his gaze and smiled. "I'll be only too happy to."

Oswald moved back to the floor and carefully lifted the candle out of the murderous candlestick. Then, his face pale, he advanced to David Smyth.

Jane felt Davyd, hands on her shoulders, put her firmly to the side. She drew a quivering breath, but stood where he put her.

Davyd's hand came up to accept the candlestick, only it didn't. Instead, it held a gun of its own. And it was pointed at Emerson.

Jane screamed.

Practically quivering with pent-up emotion, Davyd spoke to the old man.

"You...you...civilian!" he hissed. "You couldn't just let him lose his car, could you? You had to raise the stakes, again and again. And when he was losing it was you that convinced him that he had a streak coming. You stole this Hall from him, stole my life! My sister's!"

He turned to Reginald. "He stole this Hall from us, can't you see? He deserves to die!"

"And what of the other people you killed?" said Reginald quietly. "What of Anja Ericksson? What of Hermione Smithson? And what about dear old Constable Welles, who used to give us rides on his bike when we were kids? Did the war teach you nothing, Symon?"

"The war taught me that sometimes a whole section of good men must die to achieve an end! Anja? Who cared for Anja? Hermione was an accident, for which I am truly sorry, but nothing, nothing, will steal this last piece of succour from me. Emerson will die."

"And so will I then," said Lucinda clearly.

Davyd looked at her, his face a question mark.

Her face pale, she had moved herself between Emerson and Smyth.

"No, no! Davyd - don't! Not Lucy!" pleaded Jane.

"Give it up, Smyth, or Staughton, or whatever you call yourself," said Oswald. "Don't you see, it's over? You've lost."

Davyd grinned, looked around the room. The man was absolutely right. He didn't have enough bullets to get to Emerson, and Dessard was covering him with his own firearm. Dropping the gun to the ground, he pulled a vial from his pocket and raised it to his lips.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patra mori." He swallowed the contents with a single gulp.

"Davyd!" cried Jane.

Lucinda let out a shrill scream.

Hands above his head, Davyd walked straight past her, his vision already blurring. Past Oswald, he stopped before Emerson. "Look. Look at what you have done to me, to us, Emerson. May you...burn." The world swam now, even as he gasped for oxygen, felt his tongue swelling up in his mouth. "You killed us all..." He sank to the ground, convulsed once, and was still.

Though still unconscious, Madame Escuskiovna stirred and moaned, almost as if she sensed the passing of an unquiet spirit . . .

Stricken, Jane teetered back to a chair for support, sat down heavily, and began to weep anew.

"Now you can put that horrid thing away!" she said to Major Dessard, referring to his gun. "Now there's no need for it, is there, Major?"

Doctor Lawrence moved in to check the body. It was only the work of a moment to confirm the obvious.

"Well, that's that...he's gone," he said, rising to his feet.

"Now we can be done with this whole thing," he added. And now there was a bottle waiting for him in his room.

Miss Mulchop shook her head, sadly gazing at Davyd. "That poor poooor boy. Tsk." She gave Emerson a loathful look. "You swine."

After a brief pause she added,"You don't deserve this sweet girls loyalty!"

Dessard sighed, turning to Miss Mulchop.

"That 'poor boy' murdered three innocent people because his father was a lousy gambler. And he would've killed any of us in this room who would have tried to stop him from exacting a pointless revenge."

He looked at Janey sadly. "It's time to get the authorities."

Dessard lowered his weapon, then left it on top of the bar. He poured a second drink for himself, then one for Secord, pushing it slowly across the bar towards the other man in a gesture of peace.

Miles took the drink and raised it to Dessard.

"Actually that was damn good thinking, just a bit off base on the villain."

Dessard grinned awkwardly.

"Well, my apologies, good chap. Say, since you really are Miles Secord, wealthy American, perhaps we can discuss a business proposal. I know of a sound investment in a diamond mine outside Cape Town..."

Miles chuckled. "Well, I am on a world tour. I suppose I could arrange a stop at Cape Town. If you promise not to shoot me."

Lucinda, meanwhile, had moved to Madame Escuskiovna, to render her any necessary aid. But she looked up at the lanky figure of Oswald Skeffington-Nottle with eyes that glowed with frank admiration.

"Your idea about the marks of his fingers on the candle was absolutely wonderful! And it solved the whole thing!"

Oswald nodded. "Lucky he didn't go though with it though."

"Why ever not?" demanded Lucinda.

Oswald hesitated. "There were no finger marks on the candle. I ... I made them myself as I was carrying it across to him. I guessed, if he was guilty, he wouldn't risk going through with it."

Miles watched all the chaos with a cool look. He raised his glass to his host as well. "Hell of a party, Emerson. I hope you remember to invite me again next year."

 

End of Chapter 12