have starved Marmaduke and his wife long ago. He is a devil and so is she. All my enemies are devils, including the vicar, and they are always plotting—they think I do not know it, but they will find themselves mistaken, for the voices tell me all their plots. They say it is necessary for me or them to die. What I want is rest, rest for the weary, and I shall find it in the grave; the voices say so, and they know.
It seemed to us that the letter in Mrs. Jubb's handwriting and an empty phial smelling of chloroform by her side would satisfy even the most suspicious that the good lady had committed suicide.
Our preparations having been made, next morning Angel travelled down to Hardstone in the character of a lady artist, and took with her a bicycle and an easel. It was hardly the time of year for painting landscape, but, as I pointed out, we really could not take the responsibility of the seasons, and it was not possible for all artists to paint their winter scenes from their studio windows. By the first post I had a letter from her saying that she was comfortably settled at the Rose and Crown; and next day a fuller letter, describing the Manor-house grounds, enclosing a map of the country and showing the lane which
