ight place. He stole
those bonds. I fancied it at the time, but I know it now. They were
negotiated in Paris by a woman who occupied a room in the Hotel
d'Italie, Rue Caumartin, Paris, and one of her registered boxes bore
the rail number, 517."

"You little devil!" blazed out Winter. "And you never said a word when
I told you!"

"Astonishment has rendered you incoherent. You mean, of course, when
you told me you had seen in Gloucester Mansions a box labeled in
accordance with the facts I have just retailed. But I yield that minor
point. It is a purist's, at the best. I have supplied a motive, one
motive, for the crime; the plotter feared discovery. But there are
dozens of others. He was impatient of the old man's rigid control.
Hilton is sharp and shrewd, and he guessed things were going wrong
financially. He knew that his father's methods were out of date, and
believed he could straighten the tangle if the reins of power were not
withheld too long.

"He saw that Sylvia Manning's gold was in the melting-pot, and
appreciated precisely the cause of the elder Fenley's anxiety that she
should marry Robert. Once in the family, you know, her fortunes were
bound up with theirs; while any 'cute lawyer could dish her in the
marriage settlements if sufficiently well paid for a nasty job. When
Sylvia was Mrs. Robert Fenley, and perhaps mother of a squalling
Fenley, the head of the business could face the future if not with
confidence, at least with safety. But where would Hilton be then? The
girl lost, the money in jeopardy, and he himself steadily elbowed
out. _'Cre nom!_ I've known men murdered for less convincing
reasons."

"Men, yes; not fathers."

"Some sons are the offspring of Beelzebub. Consider the parentage in
this instance. Fenley, a groom and horse coper on the one hand, and
the dark daughter of a Calcutta merchant on the other. If the progeny
of such a union escaped a hereditary taint it would be a miracle.
Cremate Hilton Fenley and his very dust will contain evil germs."

"You're strong in theory but weak in proof."

That style of argument invariably nettled Furneaux.

"You must butt into a few more mysterious suites of apartments in
London and elsewhere, and you'll supply proof in bucketfuls," he
snapped.

"But was there an accomplice? Squirm as you like, you can't get over
the fact that Hilton was in his room when the bullet that killed his
father came from the wood."

"He is not the sort of person l