id those sons fight shy of touching their father's body?
Had it been your father or mine who was beaten down by a murderer's
spite, we would surely have given him one fare-well clasp of the
hand."

Winter recognized the symptoms. His diminutive friend was examining
the embryo of a theory already established in his mind. It was a
mere shadow, something vague and dark and uncertain in outline. But
it existed, and would assume recognizable shape when an active
imagination had fitted some shreds of proof to that which was yet
without form and void. At that crisis, contradiction was a tonic.

"I think you're in error in one respect," said Winter quietly. "Hilton
Fenley went to his father's assistance, and we don't know whether or
not Robert did not approach the body."

"You're wrong, most sapient one. Before telephoning Brondesbury I
asked Harris to tell me exactly what happened after the banker dropped
at his feet. Harris shouted and knelt over him. Miss Manning ran and
lifted his head. Tomlinson, Harris and Brodie carried him to the
settee. Hilton Fenley never touched him."

"What of Robert? We cleared out, leaving him there alone."

"I watched him until the undertaker's men were called back. Up to that
time he hadn't moved. Bet you a new hat the men will tell you he never
went nearer."

"You buy your own new hats," said Winter. "Do you want me to stand you
two a day? I'm off to the Yard. I'll look up two lines in town. 'Phone
through if you want help and I'll come. You sleep here tonight if you
care to. Tomlinson will provide. How about the wood?"

"Leave it."

"You'll see that artist, Trenholme?"

"Yes."

"And the bedrooms?"

"Going there now."

"So long! Sorry I must quit, but I'm keen to clear up that telephone
call."

"If you're in the office about six I'll tell you the whole story."

"Charles," said Winter earnestly, placing a hand on his colleague's
shoulder, "we gain nothing by rushing our fences. This is the toughest
job we've handled this year; there's a hard road to travel before we
sit down and prepare a brief for counsel."

"Of course, I meant the story up to the six o'clock instalment."

Winter smiled. He sprang into the car, the chauffeur having already
started the engine in obedience to a word from the Superintendent.

"Stop at the Brondesbury police station," was the order, and Furneaux
was left alone. He reentered the house and crooked a finger at the
butler, who had not summoned up