of rectitude, Farrow saluted, and produced his notebook.

"I've just made a memo of this, sir," he said, pointing to an entry.

Furneaux read:

Miss Sylvia Manning left home 6.45 P. M. Met Mr. John Trenholme,
artist, White Horse Inn, in avenue 6.47 P. M. The two held close
conversation, and went off together across park in direction of
Roxton 6.54 P. M. Lady wore no hat. Regarded incident as unusual,
so observed exact times.

"I note what the Inspector says, and will discuss the point later,"
said Furneaux, returning the book. The policeman grinned. As between
Scotland Yard and himself a complete understanding was established.

"Have the local police discovered anything of importance?" inquired
Fenley, who, now that his own affairs called for no immediate
attention, seemed to give more heed to the manner of his father's
death. At first, his manner to Furneaux had been churlish in the
extreme. Evidently he thought he could treat the representative of the
Criminal Investigation Department just as he pleased. At this moment
he elected to be gruffly civil in tone.

"They are making full inquiries, of course," replied the detective,
"but I think the investigation will be conducted in the main by my
Department----As I was saying, Mr. Fenley, undoubtedly the shot was
fired from this locality. Dr. Stern, who is an authority on bullet
wounds, is convinced of that, even if there was no other evidence,
such as the chauffeur's and the artist's I told you of, together with
the impressions formed by Bates and others."

"Were there no footprints?" was the next question, and Fenley eyed the
ground critically. He deemed those Scotland Yard Johnnies thickheaded
chaps, at the best.

"None of any value. Since ten o'clock, however, dozens of new ones
have been made. That is why the policeman is keeping an eye on the
place--chiefly to warn off intruders. Shall we return to the house?"

"It's a strange business," said Fenley, striding down the slope by
Furneaux's side. "Why in the world should any one want to shoot my
poor old guv'nor? He was straight as a die, and I don't know a soul
who had any real grievance against him."

Furneaux did not appear to be listening. The two were approaching the
patch of moist earth which bore the impress of Robert Fenley's boots.
"By the way," he said suddenly, "are you aware that there is a sort of
a theory that your father was shot by a rifle belonging to you?"

"What?