ve with game. The
door of The Towers was open, but no stately manservant was stationed
there. A yellow dog sat in the sunshine. Farrow and the dog exchanged
long-range glances: the policeman consulted his watch, bit his chin
strap, and dug his thumbs into his belt.

"Mr. Fenley is late today," he said to himself. "He catches the nine
forty-five. As a rule, he's as reliable as Greenwich. I'll wait here
till he passes, an' then call round an' see Smith."

Now, Smith was the head gardener; evidently Police Constable Farrow
was not only well acquainted with the various inmates of the mansion,
but could have prepared a list of the out-door employees as well. He
stood there, calm and impassive as Fate, and, without knowing it,
represented Fate in her most inexorable mood; for had he betaken
himself elsewhere, the shrewdest brains of Scotland Yard might have
been defeated by the enigma they were asked to solve before Mortimer
Fenley's murderer was discovered.

Indeed, it is reasonable to suppose that if chance had not brought the
village constable to that identical spot, and at that very hour, the
precise method of the crime might never have been revealed. Moreover,
Farrow himself may climb slowly to an inspectorship, and pass into the
dignified ease of a pension, without being aware of the part he played
in a tragedy that morning. Of course, in his own estimation, he filled
a highly important role as soon as the hue and cry began, but a great
deal of water would flow under London Bridge before the true effect of
his walk through the wood and emergence into sight in the avenue began
to dawn on other minds.

His appearance there was a vital fact. It changed the trend of
circumstances much as the path of a comet is deflected by encountering
a heavy planet. Presumably, neither comet nor planet is aware of the
disturbance. That deduction is left to the brooding eye of science.

Be that as it may, Police Constable Farrow's serenity was not
disturbed until a doctor's motor car panted along the avenue from
Easton and pulled up with a jerk in front of him. The doctor, frowning
with anxiety, looked out, and recognition was mutual.

"Have you got the man?" he asked, and the words were jerked out rather
than spoken.

"What man, sir?" inquired Farrows, saluting.

"The man who shot Mr. Fenley."

"The man who shot Mr. Fenley!" Farrow could only repeat each word in a
crescendo of amazement. Being a singer, he understood the use of