So, with broken utterance, he repeated the words which a rabbit-eared
housemaid had carried to Bates. Nevertheless, even while he labored
on, he fancied that the detectives did not attach such weight to the
recital as he feared. He anticipated that Winter would write each
syllable in a notebook, and show an exceeding gravity of appreciation.
To his great relief, nothing of the kind happened. Winter's comment
was distinctly helpful.

"It must have been rather disconcerting for you to hear father and
son quarreling openly," he said.

"Sir, it was most unpleasant."

"Now, did you form any opinion as to the cause of this bickering? For
instance, did you imagine that Mr. Fenley wished his son to break off
relations with an undesirable acquaintance?"

"I did, sir."

"Is either Mr. Hilton or Mr. Robert engaged to be married? Or, I had
better put it, had their father expressed any views as to either of
his sons marrying suitably?"

"We, in the house, sir, had a notion that Mr. Fenley would like Mr.
Robert to marry Miss Sylvia."

"Exactly. I expected that. Were these two young people of the same way
of thinking?"

"They were friendly, sir, but more like brother and sister. You see,
they were reared together. It often happens that way when a young
gentleman and young lady grow up from childhood in each other's
company. They never think of marriage, whereas the same young
gentleman would probably fall head over heels in love with the same
young lady if he met her elsewhere."

"Good!" broke in Furneaux. "Tomlinson, do you drink port?"

The butler looked his astonishment, but answered readily enough--

"My favorite wine, sir."

"I thought so. Taken in moderation, port induces sound reasoning. I
have some Alto Douro of '61. I'll bring you a bottle."

Tomlinson was mystified, a trifle scandalized perhaps; but he bowed
his acknowledgments.

"Sir, I will appreciate it greatly."

"I know you will. My Alto Douro goes down no gullet but a
connoisseur's."

Even in his agitation, Tomlinson smiled.

What a queer little man this undersized detective was, to be sure, and
how oddly he expressed himself!

"I ask this just as a matter of form, but did Mr. Robert Fenley take
his .450 Express rifle when he went away on Saturday?" said Winter.

"No, sir. He had only a valise strapped to the carrier. But I do
happen to know that the gun was in his room on Friday, because Friday
is my day for house inspection."

"Any cartrid