settlin' matters; but
I'll look you up when this business is all over."

"If you do, you'll get hurt," said Winter brusquely. "Is that your
rifle?" and he pointed to the weapon in Farrow's hands.

"Yes. Where was it found?"

"In the Quarry Wood, sir, but a'most in the park," said the policeman.

"Has it been used recently?"

Fenley could hardly have put a question better calculated to prove his
own innocence of any complicity in the crime.

Winter took the gun, meaning to open the breech, but he and Furneaux
simultaneously noticed a bit of black thread tied to one of the
triggers. It had been broken, and the two loose ends were some inches
in length.

"That settles it," muttered Furneaux. "The scoundrel fixed it to a
thick branch, aimed it carefully on more than one occasion--look at
the sights, set for four hundred yards--and fired it by pulling a cord
from his bedroom window when he saw his father occupying the exact
position where the sighting practiced on Monday and Tuesday showed
that a fatal wound would be inflicted. The remaining length of cord
was stronger than this packing thread, which was bound to give way
first when force was applied.... Well, that side of the question
didn't bother us much, did it, Winter?"

"May I ask who you're talking about?" inquired Robert Fenley hoarsely.

"About that precious rogue, your half brother," was the answer. "That
is why he went to his bedroom, one window of which looks out on the
park and the other on the east front, where he watched his father
standing to light a cigar before entering the motor. He laid the cord
before breakfast, knowing that Miss Manning's habit of bathing in the
lake would keep gardeners and others from that part of the grounds.
When the shot was fired he pulled in the cord----"

"I saw him doing that," interrupted Trenholme, who, after one glance
at the signs of his handiwork on Robert Fenley's left jaw, had devoted
his attention to the extraordinary story revealed by the detectives.

"You _saw_ him!" And Furneaux wheeled round in sudden wrath. "Why the
deuce didn't you tell me that?"

"You never asked me."

"How could I ask you such a thing? Am I a necromancer, a wizard, or
eke a thought reader?"

Trenholme favored the vexed little man with a contemplative look.

"I think you are all those, and a jolly clever art critic as well," he
said.

Furneaux was discomfited, and Winter nearly laughed. But the matter at
issue was too importa