-and a policeman--our Roxton
policeman."

"That would be Farrow," said Eliza. "What was _he_ doin', the
lazy-bones, that he couldn't catch the villain?"

"What villain?"

"The man who killed poor Mr. Fenley."

"They know who did it, then?"

"Well, no. There's all sorts o' tales flyin' about, but you can't
believe any of 'em."

"But why are you blaming Farrow? He's a good fellow. He sings. No real
scoundrel can sing. Read any novel, any newspaper report. 'The
prisoner's voice was harsh and unmusical.' You've seen those words
scores of times."

In his relief at learning that his own escapade was not published
broadcast, Trenholme had momentarily forgotten the dreadful nature of
Eliza's statement. She followed him into the dining-room.

"You'll be a witness, I suppose," she said, anxious to secure details
of the shot-firing.

"A witness!" he repeated blankly.

"Yes, sir. There can't be a deal o' folk who heard the gun go off."

"By Jove, Eliza, I believe you're right," he said, gazing at her in
dismay. "Now that I come to think of it, I am probably the only person
in existence who can say where that shot came from. It was a rifle,
too. I spoke of it to the keeper and Farrow."

"I was sure something would happen when I dreamed of suffrigettes this
mornin'. An' that comes of playin' pranks, Mr. Trenholme. If it wasn't
for that alarm clock----"

"Oh, come, Eliza," he broke in. "An alarm clock isn't a Gatling gun.
Your association of ideas is faulty. There is much in common between
the clatter of an alarm clock and the suffragist cause, but all the
ladies promised not to endanger life, you know."

"Anyhow, Mr. Fenley is dead as a doornail," said Eliza firmly.

"Too bad. I take back all the hard things I said about him, and I'm
sure you do the same."

"Me!"

"Yes. Didn't you say all the Fenleys were rubbish? One of them, at any
rate, was wrongly classified."

"Which one?"

Trenholme bethought himself in time.

"This unfortunate banker, of course," he said.

"I'd a notion you meant Miss Sylvia. She's pretty as a
picter--prettier than some picters I've seen--and folk speak well of
her. But she's not a Fenley."

At any other time the artist would have received that thrust _en
tierce_ with a _riposte_; at present, Eliza's facts were more
interesting than her wit.

"Who is the lady you are speaking of?" he asked guardedly.

"Mr. Fenley's ward, Miss Sylvia Manning. They say she's rich. Pore
young th