the afternoon express, Mr. Colwyn," said
the solicitor. "I should be glad if you could spare me a little of your
time before I go."

"Certainly," replied Colwyn, courteously. "It had better be at once, had
it not? You have not very much time at your disposal."

"If it does not inconvenience you," replied Mr. Oakham politely. "But
your lunch----"

"That can wait," said the detective. "I feel deeply interested in this
case of young Penreath."

"Mr. Oakham saw him this morning before coming over," said Sir Henry.
"He is quite mad, and refuses to say anything. Therefore, we have come
to the conclusion----"

"Really, Sir Henry, you shouldn't have said that." Mr. Oakham's tone was
both shocked and expostulatory.

"Why not?" retorted Sir Henry innocently. "Mr. Colwyn knows all about
it--I told him myself. I thought you wanted him to help you?"

"I am aware of that, but, my dear sir, this is an extremely delicate and
difficult business. As Mr. Penreath's professional adviser, I must beg
of you to exercise more reticence."

"Then I had better go and have my lunch while you two have a chat," said
Sir Henry urbanely, "or I shall only be putting my foot in it again. Mr.
Oakham, I shall see you before you go." Sir Henry moved off in the
direction of the luncheon room.

"Perhaps you will come to my sitting-room," said Colwyn to Mr. Oakham.
"We can talk quietly there."

"Thank you," responded Mr. Oakham, and he went with the detective
upstairs.

Mr. Oakham, of Oakham and Pendules, Temple Gardens, was a little
white-haired man of seventy, attired in the sombre black of the
Victorian era, with a polished reticent manner befitting the senior
partner of a firm of solicitors owning the most aristocratic practice in
England; a firm so eminently respectable that they never rendered a bill
of costs to a client until he was dead, when the amount of legal
expenses incurred during his lifetime was treated as a charge upon the
family estate, and deducted from the moneys accruing to the next heir,
who, in his turn, was allowed to run his allotted course without a bill
from Oakham and Pendules. They were a discreet and dignified firm, as
ancient as some of the names whose family secrets were locked away in
their office deed boxes, and were reputed to know more of the inner
history of the gentry in Burke's Peerage than all the rest of the legal
profession put together.

The arrest of the only son of Sir James Penreath, of Twelvetrees