ng himself right with Miss Manning now," broke in
Furneaux.

"Putting himself right with Miss Manning? What the deuce do you mean,
sir?" Fenley could snarl effectively when in the mood, and none might
deny his present state of irritation, be the cause what it might.

"That young lady is the only person to whom he owes an explanation. He
is giving it to her now."

"Will you kindly be more explicit?"

Furneaux glanced from his infuriated questioner to Winter, his face
one note of mild interrogation and non-comprehension.

"Really, Mr. Fenley, I have said the same thing in two different
ways," he cried. "As a rule I contrive to be tolerably lucid in my
remarks--don't I, Mr. Robert?" for the younger Fenley had just come
in.

"What's up now?" was Robert's non-committal answer.

For some reason his brother did not reply, but Furneaux suddenly grew
voluble.

"Of course, you haven't heard that an artist named Trenholme was
painting near the lake this morning when your father was killed," he
said. "Fortunately, he was there before and after the shot was fired.
He can prove, almost to a yard, the locality where the murderer was
concealed. In fact, he is coming here tomorrow, at my request, to go
over the ground with me.

"An interesting feature of the affair is that Mr. Trenholme is a
genius. I have never seen better work. One of his drawings, a water
color, has all the brilliancy and light of a David Cox, but another,
in oil, is a positive masterpiece. It must have been done in a few
minutes, because Miss Manning did not know he was sitting beneath the
cedars, and it is unreasonable to suppose that she would preserve the
same pose for any length of time--sufficiently long, that is----"

"Did the bounder paint a picture of Sylvia bathing?" broke in Robert,
his red face purple with rage.

"Allow me to remind you that you are speaking of a painter of
transcendent merit," said Furneaux suavely.

"When _I_ meet him I'll give him a damned good hiding."

"He's rather tall and strongly built."

"I don't care how big he is, I'll down him."

"Oh, stop this pothouse talk," put in Hilton, giving the blusterer a
contemptuous glance. "Mr. Furneaux, you seem primed with information.
Why should Mr. Trenholme, if that is his name, have the audacity to
call on Miss Manning? He might have the impudence to skulk among the
shrubs and watch a lady bathing, but I fail to see any motive for his
visit to The Towers this evening."