ikely to trust his liberty, his
life even, to the keeping of any other human being. I start from
the hypothesis that he alone planned and carried out the crime,
so I do not lift my hand and cry 'Impossible,' but I ask myself,
'How was it done?' Well, there are several methods worthy of
consideration--clockwork, electricity, even a time fuse attached
to the proper mechanism. I haven't really bothered myself yet to
determine the means, because when that knowledge becomes indispensable
we must have our man under lock and key."

"Of course, the rifle is securely fixed in that----"

The door opened. Tomlinson came in, smiling blandly.

"I hope you are enjoying your dinner, gentlemen both?" he said.

"You have made your cook an artist," said Furneaux.

"I suppose you are happier here than in a big London restaurant," said
Winter.

The butler appreciated such subtle compliments, and beamed on them.

"With a little encouragement and advice, our chef can prepare a very
eatable dinner," he said. "As for my own ambitions, I have had them,
like every man worth his salt; but I fill a comfortable chair here--no
worry, no grumbling, not a soul to say _nem_ or _con_, so long as
things go smoothly."

"It must have been _nem_ all the time," giggled Furneaux, and Winter
was so afflicted by a desire to sneeze that he buried his face in a
napkin.

"And how was the wine?" went on Tomlinson, with an eye on the little
man. Furneaux's features were crinkled in a Japanese smile. He wanted
to kick Winter, who was quivering with suppressed laughter.

"I never expected to find such vintages in a house of the _mauvais
riches_," he said. "Perhaps you don't speak French, Mr. Tomlinson, so
allow me to explain that I am alluding to men of wealth not born in
the purple."

"Precisely--self-made. Well sir, poor Mr. Fenley left the stocking of
his cellar entirely to me. I gave the matter much thought. When my
knowledge was at fault I consulted experts, and the result----"

"That is the result," cried Furneaux, seizing the empty claret bottle,
and planting it so firmly on the table that the cutlery danced.

A shoulder of lamb, served _a la Soubise_, appeared; and Tomlinson,
announcing that his presence in the dining-room had been dispensed
with, thought he would join them in a snack. Being a hospitable
creature, he opened another bottle of the Clos Vosgeot, but his guests
were not to be tempted.

"Well, then," he said, "in a few minutes you