uition," said the clergyman. "What your
antipathetic attitude means is that you already unconsciously know this
man is not going to avail, and that his assumption of superiority in the
matter of knowledge--his opinions and lack of faith--will defeat him if
nothing else does. He approaches his problem in an infidel spirit, and
consequently the problem will evade his skill; because such skill is not
merely futile in this matter, but actually destructive."

Mary left them, and they discussed the probable chances of the detective
without convincing each other. Henry, who had been much impressed by
Hardcastle, argued in his favor; but Septimus May was obdurate, and Sir
Walter evidently inclined to agree with him.

"The young men think the old men fools, and the old men know the young
ones are," said Sir Walter.

"But he is not young, uncle; he's forty. He told me so."

"I thought him ten years less, and he spoke with the dogmatism of
youth."

"Only on that subject."

"Which happens to be the one subject of all others on which we have a
right to demand an open and reverent mind," said the clergyman.

Henry noticed that Sir Walter spoke almost spitefully.

"Well, at any rate, he thought rather small beer of the Grey Room. He
felt quite sure that the secret lay outside it. He was going to exhaust
the possibilities of the place in no time."

As he spoke the gong sounded, and Prince, pricking his ears, led the way
to the open French window of the dining-room.

"Call our friend, Henry," said his uncle. And young Lennox, glad of the
opportunity, entered the house. He desired a word with Hardcastle in
private, and ascended to join him.

The door of the Grey Room was still closed, and Henry found some
obstacle within that prevented it from yielding to his hand. At once
disturbed by this incident, he did not stand upon ceremony. He pushed
the door, which gave before him, and he perceived that a heavy chair had
been thrust against it. His noisy entrance challenged no response, and,
looking round, it appeared for an instant that the room was empty;
but, lowering his eyes, he saw first the detective's open notebook and
stylograph lying upon the ground, then he discovered Peter Hardcastle
himself upon his face with his arms stretched out before him. He lay
beside the hearth, motionless.

Lennox stooped, supported, and turned him over. He was still warm and
relaxed in every limb, but quite unconscious and apparently dead. An