part from the table,
knowing better than to place his elbows on that sacred spread of
polished mahogany.

"I was, sir," he admitted. "Indeed, I may say I shall always be
shocked by the remembrance of it."

"Mr. Mortimer Fenley was a kindly employer?"

"One of the best, sir. He liked things done just so, and could be
sharp if there was any laxity, but I have never received a cross word
from him."

"Known him long?"

"Ever since he come to The Towers; nearly twenty years."

"And Mrs. Fenley?"

"Mrs. Fenley leaves the household entirely under my control, sir. She
never interferes."

"Why?"

"She is an invalid."

"Is she so ill that she can not be seen?"

"Practically that, sir."

"Been so for twenty years?"

Tomlinson coughed. He was prepared with an ample statement as to the
catastrophe which took place at nine thirty A. M., but this delving
into bygone decades was unexpected and decidedly distasteful, it would
seem.

"Mrs. Fenley is unhappily addicted to the drug habit, sir," he said
severely, plainly hinting that there were bounds, even for detectives.

"I fancied so," was the dry response. "However, I can understand and
honor your reluctance to reveal Mrs. Fenley's failings. Now, please
tell us exactly what Mr. Fenley and Mr. Robert said to each other in
the hall last Saturday morning."

How poor Farrow, immured in his jungle, would have gloated over
Tomlinson's collapse when he heard those fatal words! To his credit be
it said, the butler had not breathed a word to a soul concerning the
scene between father and son. He knew nothing of an inquisitive
housemaid, and his tortured brain fastened on Hilton Fenley as the
Paul Pry. Unconsciously, he felt bitter against his new master from
that moment.

"Must I go into these delicate matters, sir?" he bleated.

"Most certainly. The man whom you respected so greatly has been
killed, not in the course of a heated dispute, but as the outcome of a
brutal and well-conceived plan. Bear that in mind, and you will see
that concealment of vital facts is not only unwise but disloyal."

Winter rather let himself go in his earnestness. He flushed slightly,
and dared not look at Furneaux lest he should encounter an admiring
glance.

The butler, however, was far too worried to pay heed to his
questioner's florid turn of speech. He sighed deeply. He felt like a
timid swimmer in a choppy sea, knowing he was out of his depth yet
compelled to struggle blindly.