o
act for the best. Said some one had fired a bullet which nearly tore
his father to pieces.'

"There was more of the same sort of thing, and I got Farrow to jot
down the very words in his notebook. Of course, he doesn't guess
why.... Now, I wonder how Hilton Fenley knew the effect of that bullet
on his father's body. The doctor had not arrived. There had been only
a superficial examination by Tomlinson of the orifice of the wound.
What other mind in Roxton would picture to itself the havoc caused by
an expanding bullet? The man who uttered those words _knew_ what sort
of bullet had been used. He _knew_ it would tear his father's body to
pieces. A neurotic imagination was at work, and that cry of horror was
the soul's unconscious protest against the very fiendishness of its
own deed....

"Oh, yes. Let these Fenleys quarrel about that girl, and we'll see
Hilton marching steadily toward the Old Bailey. Of course, we'll
assist him. We'll make certain he doesn't deviate or falter on the
road. But he'll follow it, and of his own accord; and the first long
stride will be taken when he goes to the Quarry Wood to retrieve the
rifle which lies hidden there."

Winter whistled softly. Then he looked at his watch.

"By Jove! Turned half past seven," he said.

"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "James is himself again. We have hardly a
scrap of evidence, but that doesn't trouble our worthy Superintendent
a little bit, and he'll enjoy his dinner far better than he thought
possible ten minutes ago. _Sacre nom d'une pipe!_ By the time you've
tasted a bottle from Tomlinson's favorite bin you'll be preparing a
brief for the Treasury solicitor!"

CHAPTER XI

SOME PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING

Now, perhaps, taking advantage of an interval while the
representatives of Scotland Yard sought the aid of soap and water as
a preliminary to a meal, it is permissible to wander in the gloaming
with Sylvia Manning and her escort. To speak of the gloaming is a
poetic license, it is true. Seven o'clock on a fine summer evening in
England is still broad daylight, but daylight of a quality that lends
itself admirably to the exigencies of romance. There is a species of
dreaminess in the air. The landscape assumes soft tints unknown to
a fiery sun. Tender shadows steal from undiscovered realms. It is
permissible to believe that every night on Parnassus is a night in
June.

At first these two young people were at a loss to know what to talk
about. By