ers. Remember--no one, absolutely no one except the police, is to
be allowed to pass the quarry, or approach from any side within
hailing distance."

"Not even from the house, sir?"

"Exactly. Mr. Fenley and Miss Manning may be told, if necessary, why
you are there, and I am sure they will respect my wishes."

Farrow turned back. It was not so bad, then. These Scotland Yard
fellows had chosen him for an important post, and that hint about a
pipe was distinctly human. Odd thing, too, that Mr. Robert Fenley was
not expected to put in an appearance, or the Superintendent would have
mentioned him with the others.

On reaching the house there were evidences of disturbance. Hilton
Fenley stood in the doorway, and was haranguing the newspaper men in a
voice harsh with anger. This intrusion was unwarranted, illegal,
impudent. He would have them expelled by force. When he caught sight
of the Inspector he demanded fiercely that names and addresses should
be taken, so that his solicitors might issue summonses for trespass.

All this, of course, made excellent copy, and Winter put an end to the
scene by drawing the reporters aside and giving them a fairly complete
account of the murder. Incidentally, he sent off the Inspector post
haste on his bicycle to station a constable at each gate, and stop the
coming invasion. The house telephone, too, closed the main gate
effectually, so when the earliest scouts had rushed away to connect
with Fleet Street order was restored.

Winter was puzzled by Fenley's display of passion. It was only to be
expected that the newspapers would break out in a rash of black
headlines over the murder of a prominent London financier. By hook or
by crook, journalism would triumph. He had often been amazed at the
extent and accuracy of news items concerning the most secret
inquiries. Of course the reporters sometimes missed the heart of an
intricate case. In this instance, they had never heard of the bond
robbery, though the numbers of the stolen securities had been
advertised widely. Moreover, he was free to admit that if every fact
known to the police were published broadcast, no one would be a penny
the worse; for thus far the crime was singularly lacking in motive.

Meanwhile Furneaux had fastened on to Brodie again.

"You saw me at once?" he began.

"I couldn't miss you, sir," said the chauffeur, a solid, stolid
mechanic, who understood his engine and a road map thoroughly, and
left the rest to