e when occasion served. But one question he
was bound to put.

"Have you any theory, however remote or far-fetched, that will account
for your father's death in such a way?" he inquired.

The younger Fenley was smoking a cigarette. A half consumed whisky and
soda stood on a table; a bottle of whisky and a siphon promised
refreshers. He was not quite sober, but could speak lucidly.

"Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about that," he said, wrinkling
his forehead in the effort to concentrate his mind and express himself
with due solemnity. "It's funny, isn't it, that my rifle should be
missing?"

"Well, yes."

Some sarcastic inflection in Winter's voice seemed to reach a rather
torpid brain. Fenley looked up sharply.

"Of course, funny isn't the right word," he said. "I mean it's odd, a
bit of a mystery. Why should anybody take my gun if they wanted to
shoot my poor old guv'nor? That beats me. It's a licker--eh, what?"

"It is more important to know why any one should want to shoot your
father."

"That's it. Who benefits? Well, I suppose Hilton and I will be better
off--no one else. And I didn't do it. It's silly even to say so."

"But there is only your brother left in your summary."

"By Jove, yes. That's been runnin' in my head. It's nonsense, anyhow,
because Hilton was in the house. I wouldn't believe a word he said,
but Sylvia, and Tomlinson, and Brodie, and Harris all tell the same
yarn. No; Hilton couldn't have done it. He's ripe for any mischief, is
Hilton, but he can't be in this hole; now, can he?"

They could extract nothing of value out of Robert, and left him after
a brief visit.

In the interim, Hilton Fenley had kept Tomlinson talking about the
crime. The dining-room door was ajar, and he knew when the detectives
had gone to Robert's room. Then he glanced around the table, and
affected to remember the decanter of port.

"By the way," he said, "I feel as if a glass of that wine would be a
good notion tonight. I don't suppose the Scotland Yard men have
finished the lot. Just send for it, will you?"

Harris brought the decanter, and Tomlinson was gratified by seeing
that his favorite beverage had been duly appraised.

"Sorry if I've detained you," said Fenley, and the butler went out.
Rising, Fenley strolled to the door and closed it. Instantly he became
energetic, and his actions bore a curious similitude to those of
Winter a little while earlier. Pouring the wine into a tumbler, he
rinse