rue enough," replied Sir Henry Durwood. "You'll
remember I warned him yesterday to send for his friends. A man in his
condition of health should not have been permitted to wander about the
country unattended. He has probably had another attack of _furor
epilepticus_, and killed somebody while under its influence. Dear, dear,
what a dreadful thing! It may be said that I should have taken a firmer
hand with him yesterday, but what more could I have done? It's a very
awkward situation--very. I hope you'll remember, Mr. Colwyn, that I did
all that was humanly possibly for a professional man to do--in fact, I
went beyond the bounds of professional decorum, in tendering advice to a
perfect stranger. And you will also remember that what I told you about
his condition was in the strictest confidence. I should like very much
to accompany you to the police station, if you have no objection--I feel
strongly interested in the case."

"I shall be glad if you will come," replied the detective.

Colwyn turned down the short street to the front, where a footpath
protected by a hand rail had been made along the edge of the cliff for
the benefit of jaded London visitors who wanted to get the best value
for their money in the bracing Norfolk air. At the present moment that
air, shrieking across the North Sea with almost hurricane force, was too
bracing for weak nerves on the exposed path, and it was real hard work
to force a way, even with the help of the handrail, against the wind, to
say nothing of the spray which was flung up in clouds from the
thundering masses of yellow waves dashing at the foot of the cliffs
below. Sir Henry Durwood, at any rate, was very glad when his companion
turned away from the cliffs into one of the narrow tortuous streets
running off the front into High Street.

Colwyn paused in front of a stone building, half way up the street,
which displayed the words, "County Police," on a board outside. Knots of
people were standing about in the road--fishermen in jerseys and
sea boots, some women, and a sprinkling of children--brought together by
the news of murder, but kept from encroaching on the sacred domain of
law and order by a massive red-faced country policeman, who stood at
the gate in an awkward pose of official dignity, staring straight in
front of him, ignoring the eager questions which were showered on him by
the crowd. The group of people nearest the gate fell back a little as
they approached, and the po