piping voice to a whisper. "Every word thought out, but allowed to be dragged forth reluctantly. Putting brother Bob into the tureen, isn't he? 'On my soul and honor,' too! Don't you remember, some French blighter said that when an innocent man was being made a political scapegoat?... Of course, the mother is a Eurasian, and he has met her. A nice dish he served up! A salad of easily ascertainable facts with a dressing of lying innuendo. Name of a pipe! If Master Hilton hadn't been in the house——"
A knock, and the door opened.
"You want me, gentlemen, I am informed by Mr. Hilton Fenley," said Tomlinson.
There spoke the butler, discreet, precise, incapable of error. Tomlinson had recovered his breath and his dignity. He was in his own domain. The very sight of the Mid-Victorian furniture gave him confidence. His skilled glance traveled to the decanter and the empty glass. He knew to a minim how much brandy had evaporated since his last survey of the sideboard.
"Sit down, Tomlinson," said Winter pleasantly. "You must have been dreadfully shocked by this morning's occurrence."
Tomlinson sat down. He drew the chair somewhat apart from the table, knowing better than to place his elbows on that sacred spread of polished mahogany.
"I was, sir," he admitted. "Indeed, I may say I shall always be shocked by the remembrance of it."
"Mr. Mortimer Fenley was a kindly employer?"
"One of the best, sir. He liked things done just so, and could be sharp if there was any laxity, but I have never received a cross word from him."
"Known him long?"
"Ever since he come to The Towers; nearly twenty years."
"And Mrs. Fenley?"
"Mrs. Fenley leaves the household entirely under my control, sir. She never interferes."
"Why?"
"She is an invalid."
"Is she so ill that she can not be seen?"
"Practically that, sir."
"Been so for twenty years?"
Tomlinson coughed. He was prepared with an ample statement as to the catastrophe which took place at nine thirty a. m., but this delving into bygone decades was unexpected and decidedly distasteful, it would seem.
"Mrs. Fenley is unhappily addicted to the drug habit, sir," he said severely, plainly hinting that there were bounds, even for detectives.
"I fancied so," was the dry response. "However, I can understand and honor your reluctance to reveal Mrs. Fenley's failings. Now, please tell us exactly what Mr. Fenley and Mr. Robert said to each other in the hall last Saturday morning."
How poor Farrow, immured in his jungle, would have gloated over Tomlinson's collapse when he heard those fatal words! To his credit be it said, the butler had not breathed a word to a soul concerning the scene between father and son. He knew nothing of an inquisitive housemaid, and his tortured brain fastened on Hilton Fenley as the Paul Pry. Unconsciously, he felt bitter against his new master from that moment.
"Must I go into these delicate matters, sir?" he bleated.
"Most certainly. The man whom you respected so greatly has been killed, not in the course of a heated dispute, but as the outcome of a brutal and well-conceived plan. Bear that in mind, and you will see that concealment of vital facts is not only unwise but disloyal."
Winter rather let himself go in his earnestness. He flushed slightly, and dared not look at Furneaux lest he should encounter an admiring glance.
The butler, however, was far too worried to pay heed to his questioner's florid turn of speech. He sighed deeply. He felt like a timid swimmer in a choppy sea, knowing he was out of his depth yet compelled to struggle blindly.
So, with broken utterance, he repeated the words which a rabbit-eared housemaid had carried to Bates. Nevertheless, even while he labored on, he fancied that the detectives did not attach such weight to the recital as he feared. He anticipated that Winter would write each syllable in a notebook, and show an exceeding gravity of appreciation. To his great relief, nothing of the kind happened. Winter's comment was distinctly helpful.
"It must have been rather disconcerting for you to hear father and son quarreling openly," he said.
"Sir, it was most unpleasant."
"Now, did you form any opinion as to the cause of this bickering? For instance, did you imagine that Mr. Fenley wished his son to break off relations with an undesirable acquaintance?"
"I did, sir."
"Is either Mr. Hilton or Mr. Robert engaged to be married? Or, I had better put it, had their father expressed any views as to either of his sons marrying suitably?"
"We, in the house, sir, had a notion that Mr. Fenley would like Mr. Robert to marry Miss Sylvia."
"Exactly. I expected that. Were these two young people of the same way of thinking?"
"They were friendly, sir, but more like brother and sister. You see, they were reared together. It often happens that way when a young gentleman and young lady grow up from childhood in each other's company. They never think of marriage, whereas the same young gentleman would probably fall head over heels in love with the same young lady if he met her elsewhere."
"Good!" broke in Furneaux. "Tomlinson, do you drink port?"
The butler looked his astonishment, but answered readily enough—
"My favorite wine, sir."
"I thought so. Taken in moderation, port induces sound reasoning. I have some Alto Douro of '61. I'll bring you a bottle."
Tomlinson was mystified, a trifle scandalized perhaps; but he bowed his acknowledgments.
"Sir, I will appreciate it greatly."
"I know you will. My Alto Douro goes down no gullet but a connoisseur's."
Even in his agitation, Tomlinson smiled.
What a queer little man this undersized detective was, to be sure, and how oddly he expressed himself!
"I ask this just as a matter of form, but did Mr. Robert Fenley take his .450 Express rifle when he went away on Saturday?" said Winter.
"No, sir. He had only a valise strapped to the carrier. But I do happen to know that the gun was in his room on Friday, because Friday is my day for house inspection."
"Any cartridges?"
"I can't say, sir. They would be in a drawer, or, more likely, in the gun room."
"Where is this gun room?"
"Next to the harness room, sir—second door to the right in the courtyard."
"Speaking absolutely in confidence, have you formed a theory as to this murder?"
"No, sir. But if any sort of evidence is piled up against Mr. Robert I shall not credit it. No power on earth could make me believe that he would kill his father in cold blood. He respected his father, sir. He's a bit wild, as young men with too much money are apt to be, but he was good-hearted and genuine."
"Yet he did speak of blowing his own brains out, and his father's."
"That was his silly way of talking, sir. He would say, 'Tomlinson, if you tell the pater what time I came home last night I'll stab you to the heart.' When there was a bit of a family squabble he would threaten to mix a gallon of weed-killer and drink every drop. Everything was rotten, or beastly, or awfully ripping. He was not so well educated as he ought to have been—Mrs. Fenley's fault entirely; and he hadn't the—the words——"
"The vocabulary."
"That's it, sir. I see you understand."
"Tomlinson," interrupted Furneaux, "a famous American writer, Oliver Wendell Holmes, described adjectives of that class as the blank checks of intellectual bankruptcy. You have hit on the same great thought."