He looked at her statuesque limbs. Beyond her the level grass stretched out. The little company of deer wandered from a patch of cloud shadow into a patch of sunlight. The boughs of a small enclosure, heightened by vivid greens, shook in the April wind. “Oh, don’t take it too hard,” he said. “I know what it’s like.” She faced suddenly round upon him, her eyes rather staring. “Who’s taking it hard?” she said. “Let him rot.” She added: “You devil, to tell me not to take it hard! What do you know about it? Go and give someone else hell. I’ve done with you.” She began to walk away between the trees. After a while he followed her. “Look here,” he said, “if ...” She turned violently upon him, her eyes staring, her mouth drawn into a straight line. “By God!” she threw out, “if you follow me, I’ll throttle you!” “Listen,” he said. He called after her: “I don’t believe it’s really your fault. I’ll wait here and tell you why when you’re ready to hear.” She walked away fast, and then, finding that he did not pursue her, she wandered slowly and aimlessly between the tree-trunks. Close to him a bole of one of the great trees formed a table about knee-high. He took off his silk hat, and, holding it in his hand, sat down. His face was an ashy white, and slowly little drops of sweat came out upon his high forehead. He rose and went into the road, looking upwards along the avenue. At a little distance she stood leaning one hand against a tree-trunk, her head bowed down, her long skirt falling all around her feet, a tall and motionless figure, shadowy and grey amongst the young green. He returned to his bole. After a long time another small company of deer passed quite close at hand. Suddenly they quickened their pace, their feet rustling on the turf. “Well,” Etta Hudson said from close beside him, “what is it you want?” He said: “It’s like this: three days ago Dudley Leicester seemed to go mad. He assaulted a man after asking him an apparently senseless question. We have had him under observation ever since. And he’s twice stopped strangers in the street and asked them the same question. When they’ve answered ‘No’ he attempts to assault them. He’s got an attendant now, and if he’s headed off before he can ask the question he’s calm enough; but he won’t speak a word.” Etta said: “You might let me sit down there; I can’t stand.” And when she was on the bole she asked expressionlessly: “What’s the question he asks?” “It’s always,” Grimshaw said, “whether the man--a perfect stranger--rang up your telephone number.” Etta Stackpole said: “Ah! ...” She sat silent for a long time, looking down at the ground, Grimshaw standing before her and looking musingly at her face. “Well, what is it you want to know?” “I want to know,” he said, “what happened on the night he saw you home.” “I didn’t think,” she said expressionlessly, “that you could play the cad as well as the private detective.” Robert Grimshaw uttered sharply the one word, “Rot!”