.

Then, again, he was worried by the reflection that, no matter how
discriminating the police might prove with regard to his sketch of
Sylvia Manning, he would undoubtedly be called as a witness, both at
the inquest and at the trial of any person arrested for the crime. It
was asking too much of editorial human nature to expect that the
magazine which had commissioned the illustrated article on Roxton
would not make capital of the fact that its special artist was
actually sketching the house while Mr. Fenley's murderer was skulking
among the trees surrounding it. Thus there was no escape for John
Trenholme. He was doomed to become notorious. At any hour the evening
newspapers might be publishing his portrait and biography!

On going downstairs he was cheered a little by meeting an apologetic
Eliza.

"I hope I didn't do any reel 'arm, sir," she said, dropping an
aspirate in sheer emphasis.

"Any harm to whom, or what?" he asked.

"By talkin' as I did afore that 'tec, sir."

"All depends on what you said to him. If you told him, for instance,
that I carry Browning pistols in each pocket, and that my easel is a
portable Maxim gun, of course----"

"Oh, sir, I never try to be funny. I mean about the picter."

"Good Heavens! You, too!"

Eliza failed to understand this, but she was too subdued to inquire
his meaning.

"You see, sir, he must ha' heerd what I said about it, an' him
skulkin' there in the passage. Do you reelly think a hop-o'-me-thumb
like that can be a Scotland Yard man? It's my belief he's a
himpostor."

It had not dawned on Trenholme that Furneaux's complete fund of
information regarding the sketches had been obtained so recently. He
imagined that Police Constable Farrow and Gamekeeper Bates had
supplied details, so his reply cheered Eliza.

"Don't worry about unnecessary trifles," he said. "Mr. Furneaux is
not only a genuine detective, but a remarkably clever one. You ought
to have heard him praising the picture you despised."

"I never did," came the vehement protest. "The picter is fine. It was
the young lady's clothes, or the want of 'em, that I was condemnin'."

"I've seen four thousand ladies walking about the sands at Trouville
in far scantier attire."

"That's in France, isn't it?" inquired Eliza.

"Yes, but France is a more civilized country than England."

Eliza sniffed, sure sign of battle.

"Not it," she vowed. "I've read things about the carryin' on there as
made me blood