at the foot of the pine wood,
Brereton had been conscious of a curious psychological atmosphere,
centring in Cotherstone. It had grown stronger as events had developed;
it was still stronger now as they stood outside the dead man's cottage,
the light from the open door and the white-curtained window falling on
Cotherstone's excited face. Cotherstone, it seemed to Brereton, was
unduly eager about something--he might almost be said to be elated. All
of his behaviour was odd. He had certainly been shocked when Garthwaite
burst in with the news--but this shock did not seem to be of the
ordinary sort. He had looked like fainting--but when he recovered
himself his whole attitude (so, at any rate, it had seemed to Brereton)
had been that of a man who has just undergone a great relief. To put the
whole thing into a narrow compass, it seemed as if Cotherstone appeared
to be positively pleased to hear--and to find beyond doubt--that Kitely
was dead. And now, as he stood glancing from one young man to the other,
his eyes glittered as if he were absolutely enjoying the affair: he
reminded Brereton of that type of theatre-goer who will insist on
pointing out stage effects as they occur before his eyes, forcing his
own appreciation of them upon fellow-watchers whose eyes are as keen as
his own.

"A strong clue!" repeated Cotherstone, and said it yet again. "A good
'un! And if it's right, it'll clear matters up."

"What is it?" asked Bent. He, too, seemed to be conscious that there was
something odd about his prospective father-in-law, and he was gazing
speculatively at him as if in wonder. "What sort of a clue?"

"It's a wonder it didn't strike me--and you, too--at first," said
Cotherstone, with a queer sound that was half a chuckle. "But as long as
it's struck somebody, eh? One's as good as another. You can't think of
what it is, now?"

"I don't know what you're thinking about," replied Bent, half
impatiently.

Cotherstone gave vent to an unmistakable chuckle at that, and he
motioned them to follow him into the cottage.

"Come and see for yourselves, then," he said. "You'll spot it. But,
anyway--Mr. Brereton, being a stranger, can't be expected to."

The three men walked into the living-room of the cottage--a good-sized,
open-raftered, old-fashioned place, wherein burnt a bright fire, at
either side of which stood two comfortable armchairs. Before one of
these chairs, their toes pointing upwards against the fender, were a