LITMIR.BIZ

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Bow Street method."

      "Why didn't you try something of the sort with regard to Fenley's bonds?"

      "I couldn't be crude, even with a City financier. I put it gently that the money was in the family; he blinked at me like an owl, said that he would give thought to the suggestion, and shut down the inquiry by telephone before I reached the Yard from his office."

      "Oh, he did, did he? It seems to me you've made a pretty good guess in associating the bonds and the murder. You've seen both sons, of course?"

      "Yes, often."

      "Are there other members of the family?"

      "An invalid wife, never away from The Towers; and a young lady, Miss Sylvia Manning – a ward, and worth a pile. By the way, she's twenty. Mortimer Fenley, had he lived, was appointed her guardian and trustee till she reached twenty-one."

      "Twenty!" mused Winter.

      "Yes, twice ten," snapped Furneaux.

      "And Fenley has cut a figure in the City for twenty years."

      "I was sure your gray matter would be stimulated by its favorite poison."

      "Charles, this should be an easy thing."

      "I'm not so sure. Dead men tell no tales, and Fenley himself could probably supply many chapters of an exciting story. They will be missing. Look at the repeated failures of eminent authors to complete 'Edwin Drood.' How would they have fared if asked to produce the beginning?"

      "Still, I'm glad you attended to those bonds. Who had charge of the Paris end?"

      "Jacques Faure."

      "Ah, a good man."

      "Pretty fair, for a Frenchman."

      Winter laughed.

      "You born frog!" he cried… "Hello, there's a Roxton sign post. Now let's compose our features. We are near The Towers."

      The estate figured on the county map, so the chauffeur pulled up at the right gate. A woman came from the lodge to inquire their business, and admitted the car when told that its occupants had been summoned by Mr. Hilton Fenley.

      "By the way," said Furneaux carelessly, "is Mr. Robert at home?"

      "No, sir."

      "When did he leave?"

      "I'm sure I don't know, sir."

      Mrs. Bates knew quite well, and Furneaux knew that she knew.

      "The country domestic is the detective's aversion," he said as the car whirred into the avenue. "The lady of the lodge will be a sufficiently tough proposition if we try to drag information out of her, but the real tug of war will come when we tackle the family butler."

      "Her husband is also the head keeper," said Winter.

      "Name of Bates," added Furneaux.

      "Oh, you've been here before, then?"

      "No. While you were taking stock of the kennels generally, I was deciphering a printed label on a box of dog biscuit."

      "I hardly feel that I've begun this inquiry yet," said Winter airily.

      "You'd better pull yourself together. The dead man's limousine is still waiting at the door, and the local doctor is in attendance."

      "Walter J. Stern, M.D."

      "Probably. That brass plate on the Georgian house in the center of the village positively glistened."

      They were received by Hilton Fenley himself, all the available men servants having been transferred to the cohort organized and directed by Police Constable Farrow.

      "Good morning, Mr. Furneaux," said Fenley. "I little thought, when last we met, that I should be compelled to seek your help so soon again, and under such dreadful circumstances."

      Furneaux, whose face could display at will a Japanese liveliness of expression or become a mask of Indian gravity, surveyed the speaker with inscrutable eyes.

      "This is Superintendent Winter, Chief of my Department," he said.

      "The Assistant Commissioner told me to take charge of the inquiry without delay, sir," explained Winter. He glanced at his watch. "We have not been long on the road. It is only twenty minutes to eleven."

      Fenley led them through a spacious hall into a dining-room on the left. On an oak settee at the back of the hall the outline of a white sheet was eloquent of the grim object beneath. In the dining-room were an elderly man and a slim, white-faced girl. Had Trenholme been present he would have noted with interest that her dress was of white muslin dotted with tiny blue spots – not fleurs de lys, but rather resembling them.

      "Dr. Stern, and Miss Sylvia Manning," said Fenley to the newcomers. Then he introduced the Scotland Yard men in turn. By this time the young head of the family had schooled himself to a degree of self-control. His sallow skin held a greenish pallor, and as if to satisfy some instinct that demanded movement he took an occasional slow stride across the parquet floor or brushed a hand wearily over his eyes. Otherwise he had mastered his voice, and spoke without the gasping pauses which had made distressful his words to Farrow.

      "Ours is a sad errand, Mr. Fenley," began Winter, after a hasty glance at the table, which still bore the disordered array of breakfast. "But, if you feel equal to the task, you might tell us exactly what happened."

      Fenley nodded.

      "Of course, of course," he said quietly. "That is essential. We three, my father, Miss Manning and myself, breakfasted together. The second gong goes every morning at eight forty-five, and we were fairly punctual today. My father and Sylvia, Miss Manning, came in together – they had been talking in the hall previously. I saw them entering the room as I came downstairs. During the meal we chatted about affairs in the East; that is, my father and I did, and Syl – Miss Manning – gave us some news of a church bazaar in which she is taking part.

      "My father rose first and went to his room, to collect papers brought from the City overnight. I met him on the stairs, and he gave me some instructions about a prospectus. (Let me interpolate that I was going to Victoria by a later train, having an appointment at eleven o'clock with Lord Ventnor, chairman of a company we are bringing out.) I stood on the stairs, saying something, while my father crossed the hall and took his hat and gloves from Harris, the footman. As I passed along the gallery to my own room I saw him standing on the landing at the top of the steps.

      "He was cutting the end off a cigar, and Harris was just behind him and a little to the left, striking a match. Every fine morning my father lighted a cigar there. In rain or high wind he would light up inside the house. By the way, my mother is an invalid, and dislikes the smell of tobacco, so unless we have guests we don't smoke indoors.

      "Well, I had reached my room, a sitting-room adjoining my bedroom, when I heard a gunshot. Apparently it came from the Quarry Wood, and I was surprised, because there is no shooting at this season. A little later – some few seconds – I heard Sylvia scream. I did not rush out instantly to discover the cause. Young ladies sometimes scream at wasps and caterpillars. Then I heard Tomlinson say, 'Fetch Mr. Hilton at once,' and I ran into Harris, who blurted out, 'Mr. Fenley has been shot, sir.'

      "After that, I scarcely know what I said or how I acted. I remember running downstairs, and finding my father lying outside the front door, with Sylvia supporting his head and Tomlinson and Brodie trying to lift him. I think – in fact, I am sure now from what Dr. Stern tells me – that my father was dead before I reached him. We all thought at first that he had yielded to some awfully sudden form of paralysis, but some one – Tomlinson, I believe – noticed a hole through the right side of his coat and waistcoat. Then Sylvia – oh, perhaps that is matterless – "

      "Every incident, however slight, is of importance in a case of this sort," Winter encouraged him.

      "Well, she said – what was it, exactly? Do you remember, Sylvia?"

      "Certainly," said the girl, unhesitatingly. "I said that I thought I recognized the sound of Bob's .450. Why shouldn't I say it? Poor Bob didn't shoot his father."

      Her voice, though singularly musical, had a tearful ring

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