its accuracy. Did or did not Sylvia accept you?"

"Well, she said something about not wishing to talk of marriage so
soon after the old man's death, but that was just her way of putting
it. I mean to marry her; and when a fellow has made up his mind on a
thing like that it's best to say so and have done with it. Sylvia's a
jolly nice girl, and has plenty of tin. I'm first in the field, so I'm
warning off any other candidates. See?"

"Yes, I see," said Hilton, pouring out another glass of wine. This
time his hand was quite steady, and he drank without mishap.

"Ain't you going to wish me luck?" said Robert, eying him viciously.

"I agree with Sylvia. The day we have lost our father is hardly a
fitting time for such a discussion; or shall I say ceremony?"

"You can say what the devil you like. And you can do what you like.
Only keep off my corns and I won't tread on yours."

Having, as he fancied, struck a decisive blow in the struggle for
that rare prize, Sylvia, Robert Fenley pushed back his chair, arose,
waited a second for an answer which came not, and strode out,
muttering something about being "fed up."

Hilton's face was lowered, and one nervous hand shaded his brows.
Robert thought he had scored, but he could not see the inhuman rage
blazing in those hidden eyes. The discovery, had he made it, might not
have distressed him, but he would surely have been puzzled by the
strange smile which wrinkled Hilton's sallow cheeks when the door
closed and the Eurasian was left alone in the dining-room.

CHAPTER XII

WHEREIN SCOTLAND YARD IS DINED AND WINED

Three dinners for two were in progress in The Towers at one and the
same hour. One feast had been shortened by the ill-concealed hatred of
each brother for the other. At the second, brooding care found
unwonted lodging in the charming personality of Sylvia Manning--care,
almost foreboding, heightened by the demented mutterings of her
"aunt." At the third, with the detectives, sat responsibility; but
light-heartedly withal, since these seasoned man-hunters could cast
off their day's work like a garment.

The first and second meals were of the high quality associated with
English country houses of a superior class; the third was a spread for
epicures. Tomlinson saw to that. He was catering for a gourmet in
Furneaux, and rose to the requisite height.

The little man sighed as he tasted the soup.

"What is it now?" inquired Winter, whose glance was dwel