After a
long pause he turned, and threw the unconsumed half of a cigar into
the fireplace.

"It's a pity to waste such a perfect Havana," he said mournfully, "but
I make it a rule not to smoke while passing along the corridors.
And--you'll be busy. Keep me posted."

Winter smiled. When the door had closed on his visitor he even
laughed.

"By Jove!" he said to himself. "A heart to heart talk with the guv'nor
is always most illuminative. Now many another boss would have said he
was puzzled, or bothered, or have given me some silly advice such as
that I must be discreet, look into affairs closely, and not act
precipitately. Not so our excellent A. C. He's clean bowled, and
admits it, without speaking a word. He's a tonic; he really is!"

He touched an electric bell. When the policeman attendant, Johnston,
appeared, he asked if Detective Sergeant Sheldon was in the building,
and Sheldon came. The Superintendent had met him in a Yorkshire town
during a protracted and difficult inquiry into the death of a wealthy
recluse; although the man was merely an ordinary constable he had
shown such resourcefulness, such ability of a rare order, that he was
invited to join the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department,
and had warranted Winter's judgment by earning rapid promotion.

Though tall, and of athletic build, he had none of the distinctive
traits of the average policeman. He dressed quietly and in good taste,
and carried himself easily; a peculiarity of his thoughtful, somewhat
lawyer-like face was that the left eye was noticeably smaller than the
right. Among other qualifications, he ranked as the best amateur
photographer in the "Yard," and was famous as a rock climber in the
Lake District.

Winter plunged at once into the business in hand.

"Sheldon," he said, "I'm going out, and may be absent an hour or
longer. If a telephone message comes through from Mr. Furneaux tell
him I have located the doubtful call made to The Towers this morning.
Have you read the report of the Fenley murder in the evening papers?"

"Yes, sir. _Is_ it a murder?"

"What else could it be?"

"An extraordinary accident."

Winter weighed the point, which had not occurred to him previously.

"No," he said. "It was no accident. I incline to the belief that it
was the best-planned crime I've tackled during the past few years.
That is my present opinion, at any rate. Now, a man from the
Brondesbury police station is following one of the