tion of that discreet person, Tomlinson, the two retired
to their room at an early hour. The butler pressed them hospitably
to try the house's special blend of Scotch whisky, but they had
declined resolutely. Both acknowledged to an unwonted lassitude and
sleepiness--symptoms which Hilton Fenley might expect and inquire
about. When they were gone, the major domo sat down to review the
day's doings.

His master's death at the hands of a murderer had shocked and saddened
him far more than his manner betrayed. If some fantastic chain of
events brought Tomlinson to the scaffold he would still retain the
demeanor of an exemplary butler. But beneath the externals of his
office he had a heart and a brain; and his heart grieved for a
respected employer, and his brain told him that Scotland Yard was no
wiser than he when it came to suspecting a likely person of having
committed the crime, let alone arresting the suspect and proving his
guilt.

Of course, therein Tomlinson was in error. Even butlers of renown have
their limitations, and his stopped far short of the peculiar science
of felon-hunting in which Winter and Furneaux were geniuses, each in
his own line.

Assuredly he would have been vastly astonished could he have seen
their movements when the bedroom door closed on them. In fact, his
trained ear might have found some new quality in such a commonplace
thing as the closing of the door. Every lock and bolt and catch in The
Towers was in perfect working order, yet the lock of this door failed
to click, for the excellent reason that it was jammed by a tiny wedge.
Hence, it could be opened noiselessly if need be; and lest a hinge
might squeak each hinge was forthwith drenched with vaseline. Further,
a tiny circlet of India rubber, equipped with a small spike, was
placed between door and jamb.

Then, murmuring in undertones when they spoke, the detectives unpacked
their portmanteaux. Winter produced no article out of the ordinary
run, but Furneaux unrolled a knotted contrivance which proved to be a
rope ladder.

"One or both of us may have to go out by the window," he said. "At any
rate, we have Wellington's authority for the military axiom that a
good leader always provides a line of retreat."

"I wonder what became of the rest of that wine?" said Winter, rolling
the beer bottle in a shirt and stowing it away.

"I didn't dare ask. Tomlinson can put two and two together rather
cleverly. He _almost_ interfered when H