y of the dining-room Furneaux had taken his measure.

"English, a gentleman, art-trained in Paris. Thinks the loss of La
Giaconde a far more serious event than a revolution, and regards the
Futurist school pretty much as the Home Secretary regards the militant
suffragists. Knows as much about the murder as I do about the rings of
Saturn. But he ought to provide a touch of humor in an affair that
promises little else than heavy tragedy. And it will do Miss Sylvia
Manning some good if she is made to see that there are others than
Fenleys in the world. So, have at him!"

While going downstairs, the detective became aware of some sniffing in
the back passage. Eliza red-eyed now from distress, stood there,
dabbing her cheeks with a corner of her apron.

"Pup-pup-please, sir," she began, but quailed under a sudden and
penetrating look from those beady eyes.

"Well, what is it?" inquired Furneaux.

A violent nudge from curl papers stirred the cook's wits.

"I do hope you dud-dud-didn't pay any heed to anythink I was a-sayin'
of," she stammered. "Mr. Trenholme wouldn't hurt a fuf-fuf-fly. I
sus-sus-saw the picter, an' was on'y a-teasin' of 'im, like a
sus-sus-silly woman."

"Exactly. Yet he heaps coals of fire on your head by declaring that
you are the best cook in Hertfordshire! Is that true?"

Furneaux's impish grin was a tonic in itself. Eliza dropped the apron
and squared her elbows.

"I don't know about bein' the best in Hertfordshire," she cried, "but
I can hold me own no matter where the other one comes from, provided
we start fair."

"Take warning, then, that if I bring a man here tomorrow evening--a
big man, with a round head and bulging blue eyes--a man who looks as
though he can use a carving-knife with discretion--you prepare a
dinner worthy of the reputation of the White Horse! In that way, and
in none other, can you rehabilitate your character."

Furneaux was gone before Eliza recovered her breath. Then she turned
on the kitchen maid.

"Wot was it he said about my char-ac-ter?" she demanded warmly. "An'
wot are _you_ grinnin' at? If it wasn't for _your_ peepin' an' pryin'
I'd never ha' set eyes on that blessed picter. You go an' put on a
black dress, an' do yer hair respectable, an' mind yer don't spend
half an hour perkin' an' preenin' in front of a lookin'-glass."

Mary fled, and Eliza bustled into the kitchen.

"A big man, with a round head an' bulgin' blue eyes!" she muttered
wrathfully. "Doe