irmed
our belief in your innocence."

"I told you why, you will remember," piped Furneaux.

But Robert Fenley said no word. He was stunned. He began to feel ill
again, and made for his room. Sylvia had not been seen since she heard
of Mrs. Fenley's death. The detectives collected their belongings,
which with the gun and a bag packed with various articles taken from
Hilton Fenley's suite--the reel, for instance, a suit of clothes
bearing marks, possibly of moss, and the leather portfolio of
papers--were entrusted to Farrow and another constable for safe
conveyance. Accompanied by Trenholme, they walked to Easton. On the
way the artist supplied sufficient details of his two meetings with
Sylvia to put them in possession of the main incidents. Furneaux,
though suffering from a splitting headache, had recovered the use of a
vinegary tongue.

"I was mistaken in you," he chuckled. "You're a rank impressionist.
Indeed, you're a neo-impressionist, a get-busy-and-do-it-now master of
art.... But she's a mighty nice girl, isn't she?"

"Meaning Miss Manning?" said Trenholme coldly.

"No. Eliza."

"Sorry. I misunderstood."

"_'Cre nom!_ You've got it bad."

"Got what bad?"

"The matrimonial measles. You're sickening for them now. One of the
worst symptoms in the man is his curt refusal to permit anybody else
to admire one bright particular star of womanhood. If the girl hears
another girl gushing over the young man, she's ready to scratch her
eyes out. By Jove! It'll be many a day before you forget your visit to
Roxton Park this morning, or yesterday morning, or whenever it was.

"I'm mixed. Life has been very strenuous during the past fifteen
hours. If you love me, James, put my poor head under a pump, or I'll
be dreaming that our lightning sketch performer here, long John
Trenholme, late candidate for the P. R. A., but now devoted to the
cult of Hymen, is going to marry Eliza, of the White Horse, and that
the fair Sylvia is pledged to cook us a dinner tomorrow night--or is
it tonight? Oh, Gemini, how my head aches!"

"Don't mind a word he's saying, Mr. Trenholme," put in Winter. "Hilton
Fenley hit him a smack with that rifle, and it developed certain
cracks already well marked. But he's a marvelously 'cute little codger
when you make due allowance for his peculiar ways, and he has a queer
trick of guessing at future events with an accuracy which has
surprised me more times than I can keep track of."

Trenholme was