and void. At that crisis, contradiction was a tonic.
"I think you're in error in one respect," said Winter quietly. "Hilton Fenley went to his father's assistance, and we don't know whether or not Robert did not approach the body."
"You're wrong, most sapient one. Before telephoning Brondesbury I asked Harris to tell me exactly what happened after the banker dropped at his feet. Harris shouted and knelt over him. Miss Manning ran and lifted his head. Tomlinson, Harris and Brodie carried him to the settee. Hilton Fenley never touched him."
"What of Robert? We cleared out, leaving him there alone."
"I watched him until the undertaker's men were called back. Up to that time he hadn't moved. Bet you a new hat the men will tell you he never went nearer."
"You buy your own new hats," said Winter. "Do you want me to stand you two a day? I'm off to the Yard. I'll look up two lines in town. 'Phone through if you want help and I'll come. You sleep here tonight if you care to. Tomlinson will provide. How about the wood?"
"Leave it."
"You'll see that artist, Trenholme?"
"Yes."
"And the bedrooms?"
"Going there now."
"So long! Sorry I must quit, but I'm keen to clear up that telephone call."
"If you're in the office about six I'll tell you the whole story."
"Charles," said Winter earnestly, placing a hand on his colleague's shoulder, "we gain nothing by rushing our fences. This is the toughest job we've handled this year; there's a hard road to travel before we sit down and prepare a brief for counsel."
"Of course, I meant the story up to the six o'clock instalment."
Winter smiled. He sprang into the car, the chauffeur having already started the engine in obedience to a word from the Superintendent.
"Stop at the Brondesbury police station," was the order, and Furneaux was left alone. He reëntered the house and crooked a finger at the butler, who had not summoned up courage to retire to his own sanctum, though a midday meal was awaiting him.
"Take me upstairs," said the detective. "I shall not detain you many minutes. Then you and I will have a snack together and you'll borrow a bicycle for me, and I sha'n't trouble you any more till a late hour."
"No trouble at all, sir," Tomlinson assured him. "If I could advance your inquiry in the least degree I'd fast cheerfully all day."
"What I like about you, Tomlinson, is your restraint," said Furneaux. "Many a man would have offered to fast a week, not meaning to deny himself a toothful five minutes longer than was avoidable. Now you really mean what you say——Ah, this is Mr. Robert's den. And that is his bedroom, with dressing-room adjoining. Very cozy, to be sure. Of course, the rooms have been dusted regularly since he disappeared on Saturday?"
"Every day, sir."
"Well, I hate prying into people's rooms. Beastly liberty, I call it. Now for Mr. Hilton's."
"Is that all, sir?" inquired the butler, manifestly surprised by the cursory glance which the detective had given around the suite of apartments.
"All at present, thank you. Like the Danites' messengers, I'm only spying out the lie of the land. Ah, each brother occupied a corner of the east wing. Robert, north, Hilton, south—a most equitable arrangement. Now these rooms show signs of tenancy, eh?"
They were standing in Hilton Fenley's sitting-room, having traversed the whole of the gallery around the hall to reach it. The remains of a fire in the grate caught Furneaux's eye, and the butler coughed apologetically.
"Mr. Hilton won't have his rooms touched, sir, until he leaves home of a morning," he said. "He likes to find his papers, et cetera, where he put them overnight. As a rule the housemaid comes here soon after breakfast, but this morning—naturally——"
"Of course, of course," assented the other promptly. "Everything is at sixes and sevens. Would you mind sending the girl here? I'd like to have a word with her."
Tomlinson moved ponderously towards an electric bell.
"No," said Furneaux. "Don't ring. Just ask her to come. Then she can bring me to your place and we'll nibble something. Meanwhile I'll enjoy this view."
"Certainly, sir. That will suit me admirably."
Tomlinson walked out with stately tread. His broad back was scarcely turned before the detective's nimble feet had carried him into the bedroom, which stood in the southeast angle. He seemed to fly around the room like one possessed of a fiend of unrest. Picking up a glass tumbler, he sniffed it and put it in a pocket. He peered at the bed, the dressing-table, the carpet; opened drawers and wardrobe doors, examined towels in the bathroom, and stuffed one beneath his waistcoat.
Running back to the sitting-room, he found a torn envelope, and began picking up some specks of grit from the carpet, each of which went into a corner of the envelope, which he folded and stowed away. Then he bent over the fireplace and rummaged among the cinders. Three calcined lumps, not wholly consumed, appeared to interest him. A newspaper was handy; he wrapped the grimy treasure trove in a sheet, and that small parcel also went into a pocket.
When a swish of skirts on the stairs announced the housemaid he retreated to the bedroom, and the girl found him standing at a south window, gazing out over the fair vista of the Italian terraces and the rolling parkland.
"Yes, sir," said the girl timidly.
He turned, as if he had not heard her approach. She was pale, and her eyes were red, for the feminine portion of the household was in a state of collapse.
"I only wanted to ask why a fire is laid in the sitting-room in such fine weather," he said.
"Mr. Hilton sits up late, sir, and if the evening is at all chilly, he puts a match to the grate himself."
"Ah, a silly question. Don't tell anybody I spoke of it or they'll think me a funny detective, won't they?"
He smiled genially, and the girl's face brightened.
"I don't see that, sir," she said. "I don't know why Mr. Hilton wanted a fire last night. It was quite hot. I slept with my window wide open."
"A very healthy habit, too. Do you attend to Mr. Robert's suite?"
"Yes, sir."
"Does he have a fire?"
"Never in the summer, sir."
"He's a warmer-blooded creature than Mr. Hilton, I fancy."
"I expect so, sir."
"Well, now, there's nothing here. But we detectives have to nose around everywhere. I'm sure you are terribly upset by your master's death. Everybody gives him a good word."
"Indeed, he deserved it, sir. We all liked him. He was strict but very generous."
Furneaux chatted with her while they descended the stairs and traversed devious passages till the butler's room was gained. By that time the housemaid was convinced that Mr. Furneaux was "a very nice man." When she "did" Hilton Fenley's rooms she missed the glass, but gave no heed to its absence. Who would bother about a glass in a house where murder had been done? She simply replaced it by another of the same pattern.
"May I inquire, sir," said Tomlinson, when Furneaux had washed face and hands and was seated at a table laid for two, "may I inquire if you have any preference as to a luncheon wine?"
"I think," said Furneaux with due solemnity, "that a still wine——"
"I agree with you, sir. At this time of the day a Sauterne or a Johannisberger——"
"To my taste, a Château Yquem, with that delicate flavor which leaves the palate fresh—Frenchmen call it the sève——"
"Sir, I perceive that you have a taste. Singularly enough, I have a bottle of Château Yquem in my sideboard."