s he think I'm afraid of that sort of brewer's
drayman, or of a little man with eyes like a ferret, either? If he
does, he's very much mistaken. I don't believe he's a real 'tec. I
wouldn't be a bit surprised if he wasn't a reporter. They've cheek
enough for ten, as a rule. Talkin' about my char-ac-ter, an' before
that hussy of a girl, too! Wait till I see him tomorrow, that's all."

Meanwhile, Furneaux had not held the second glass of Chateau Yquem to
the light in Tomlinson's sanctum before Winter's car was halting
outside Brondesbury police station. An Inspector assured the
Superintendent that a constable was on the track of Robert Fenley, and
had instructions to report direct to Scotland Yard. Then Winter
reentered the car, and was driven to Headquarters.

He was lunching in his own room, frugally but well, on bread and
cheese and beer, when the Assistant Commissioner came in.

"Ah, Mr. Winter," he said. "I was told you had returned. That
telephone call came from a call office in Shaftesbury Avenue. A lady,
name unknown, but the youth in charge knows her well by sight, and
thinks she lives in a set of flats near by. I thought the information
sufficient for your purpose, so suspended inquiries till I heard from
you."

"Just what I wanted, sir," said Winter. "There may be nothing in it,
but I was curious to know why Hilton Fenley took the trouble to fib
about such a trivial matter. His brother, too, is behaving in a way
that invites criticism. I don't imagine that either of the sons shot
his father--most certainly, Hilton Fenley could not have done it, and
Robert, I think, was in London at the time----"

"Dear me!" broke in the other, a man of quiet, self-contained manner,
on whose lips that mild exclamation betokened the maximum of
surprise. "Is there any reason whatsoever for believing that one of
these young men may be a parricide?"

"So many reasons, sir, and so convincing in some respects, that the
local police would be seriously considering the arrest of Robert
Fenley if they had the ascertained facts in their possession."

The Assistant Commissioner sat down.

"I hear you keep a sound brand of cigars here, Mr. Winter," he said.
"I've just lunched in the St. Stephen's Club, so, if you can spare the
time----"

At the end of the Superintendent's recital the Chief offered no
comment. He arose, went to the window, and seemed to seek inspiration
from busy Westminster Bridge and a river dancing in sunshine.