ling
appreciatively on a dusty bottle labeled "Clos Vosgeot, 1879."

"I hate eating the food of a man whom I mean to produce as a star
turn at the Old Bailey," was the despondent answer.

"So do I, if it comes to that," said Winter briskly. "But this
appetizing menu comes out of another larder. I shall be vastly
mistaken if we're not actually the guests of a certain pretty young
lady. Finance of the Fenley order is not in good odor in the City.

"Have no scruples, my boy. We may be vultures at the feast; but before
we see the end of the Fenley case there'll be a smash in Bishopsgate
Street, and Miss Sylvia Manning will be lucky if some sharp lawyer is
able to grab some part of the wreckage for her benefit."

"Clear logic, at any rate." And Furneaux brightened visibly.

"I'll tell you what it's based on. Our swarthy friend was examining
lists of securities in the train. He didn't lift his head quickly
enough--took me for a ticket puncher, I expect--so I had time to twig
what he was doing. I'd like to run my eye over the papers in that
leather portfolio."

"You may manage it. You're the luckiest fellow breathing. Such
opportunities come your way. _I_ have to make them."

After an interlude played by sole Colbert, Winter shot an amused
question at his companion.

"What's at the back of your head with regard to the artist and Miss
Sylvia?" he said.

"It's high time she spoke to a real man. These Fenleys are animals,
all of 'em. John Trenholme is a genius, and a good-looking one."

"I met the girl in a corridor a while ago, and she was rather
disconsolate, I thought."

"And with good reason. You've noticed how each brother eyes her.
They'll fight like jackals before this night is out. I hope Sylvia
will indulge in what women call a good cry. That will be Trenholme's
golden hour. Some Frenchman--of course he was clever, being
French--says that a man should beware when a woman smiles but he may
dare all when she weeps."

"Are we marriage brokers, then?"

"We must set the Fenleys at each other's throats."

"Yes," mused Winter aloud, when a _ris de veau bonne maman_ had passed
like a dream, "this affair is becoming decidedly interesting. But
every why hath a wherefore, according to Shakespeare. Tell me"--and
his voice sank to a whisper--"tell me why you believe Hilton Fenley
killed his father."

"You nosed your way into that problem this afternoon. Between his
mother and that girl, Eileen Garth, he was in a t