tter of inquests.

"Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers," he said. "The police
will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought
sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a
solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one
whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never
knows how these inquiries twist and turn."

"Thank you," said Grant, smiling at the journalist's tact. "I'll order
tea to be got ready while you're taking your pictures. By the way, what
sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?"

"A pocket marvel," was the enthusiastic answer. "Haven't you heard of him
before? Well, you wouldn't, unless you followed famous cases
professionally. He seldom appears in the courts--generally manages to
wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I've never known him to fail.
He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime,
and was told that Furneaux was after me, I'd own up and save trouble,
because I wouldn't have the ghost of a chance of winning clear."

"He strikes one as too flippant for a detective."

"Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they're either disappearing
in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at
Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job."

"Who is 'Winter'?"

"The Chief Inspector at the 'Yard.' A big, cheerful-looking fellow--from
his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for
horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big 'Un and the
Little 'Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven
help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They'll get him, as sure as
God made little apples."

"Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be
pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that
fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it
purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the
literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there
caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning--before I
discovered the body--and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible
still? I saw it to-day while shaving."

"Yes," said the other, chortling over the "copy" his colleagues were
missing. "The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects
like a rose-tree can make mischief. I rem