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he exclaimed.

'Let us do the Countess justice,' Lord Montbarry persisted.



'There are not half a dozen lines more that I can make out!

The accidental breaking of his jar of acid has burnt the Baron's



hands severely. He is still unable to proceed to the destruction

of the head--and the Countess is woman enough (with all her wickedness)



to shrink from attempting to take his place--when the first news

is received of the coming arrival of the commission of inquiry



despatched by the insurance offices. The Baron feels no alarm.

Inquire as the commission may, it is the natural death of the Courier



(in my Lord's character) that they are blindly investigating.

The head not being destroyed, the obviousalternative is to hide it--



and the Baron is equal to the occasion. His studies in the old library

have informed him of a safe place of concealment in the palace.



The Countess may recoil from handling the acids and watching the process

of cremation; but she can surely sprinkle a little disinfecting



powder--'

'No more!' Henry reiterated. 'No more!'



'There is no more that can be read, my dear fellow. The last page

looks like sheer delirium. She may well have told you that her



invention had failed her!'

'Face the truth honestly, Stephen, and say her memory.'



Lord Montbarry rose from the table at which he had been sitting,

and looked at his brother with pitying eyes.



'Your nerves are out of order, Henry,' he said. 'And no wonder,

after that frightful discovery under the hearth-stone. We won't dispute



about it; we will wait a day or two until you are quite yourself again.

In the meantime, let us understand each other on one point at least.



You leave the question of what is to be done with these pages of writing

to me, as the head of the family?'



'I do.'

Lord Montbarry quietly took up the manuscript, and threw it



into the fire. 'Let this rubbish be of some use,' he said,

holding the pages down with the poker. 'The room is getting chilly--



the Countess's play will set some of these charred logs flaming again.'

He waited a little at the fire-place, and returned to his brother.



'Now, Henry, I have a last word to say, and then I have done.

I am ready to admit that you have stumbled, by an unlucky chance,



on the proof of a crime committed in the old days of the palace,

nobody knows how long ago. With that one concession, I dispute



everything else. Rather than agree in the opinion you have formed,

I won't believe anything that has happened. The supernatural



influences that some of us felt when we first slept in this hotel--

your loss of appetite, our sister's dreadful dreams, the smell that



overpowered Francis, and the head that appeared to Agnes--I declare them

all to be sheer delusions! I believe in nothing, nothing, nothing!'



He opened the door to go out, and looked back into the room.

'Yes,' he resumed, 'there is one thing I believe in. My wife has



committed a breach of confidence--I believe Agnes will marry you.

Good night, Henry. We leave Venice the first thing to-morrow



morning.

So Lord Montbarry disposed of the mystery of The Haunted Hotel.



POSTSCRIPT

A last chance of deciding the difference of opinion between



the two brothers remained in Henry's possession. He had his own

idea of the use to which he might put the false teeth as a means



of inquiry when he and Ms fellow-travellers returned to England.

The only surviving depositary of the domestic history of



the family in past years, was Agnes Lockwood's old nurse.

Henry took his first opportunity of trying to revive her personal



recollections of the deceased Lord Montbarry. But the nurse had never

forgiven the great man of the family for his desertion of Agnes;



she flatly refused to consult her memory. 'Even the bare sight

of my lord, when I last saw him in London,' said the old woman,






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