Normanhurst, as you know, is a low, spreading house of a comfortable Victorian dowdiness. There are--don’t count the attics--only two stories. It is old enough to be quite covered with climbing plants--ivy on the north, roses and a wistaria on the other sides. Birdie Bolton’s bedroom and boudoir looked to the south, and were on the ground floor. On the north of the house is the approach from the high road, a curling drive through a shrubbery. Birdie Bolton’s rooms looked out upon a rose-bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed a big Gloire de Dijon. The roses beneath were of the newer hybrid teas, well cultivated, well chosen, and at their best--a fragrant pomp of red and gold. “How she loved ’em, poor soul,” Reggie thought, and began to feel sentimental. That singular emotion was interrupted by the sound of a motor-car. He went back to the front of the house to meet it. A big car was drawing up. It contained two people--a uniformed chauffeur and a large young man who jumped out, rather clumsily, before the car stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of musical comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than fatuous, and a pallid complexion. “I think you are Mr. Ford.” Reggie came close to him. “I am Dr. Fortune. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I hardly expected to see you so soon.” “Miss Weston sent for me, sir.” Mr. Ford recoiled, for Reggie’s face was very close to his. “Did she, though!” Reggie murmured. “Did she really?” Miss Weston had forgotten to tell him that. Pussy-cat! “Well, Flora telephoned for her. She said something terrible had happened, and Miss Weston wanted me. I say, doctor, what has happened?” “Jolly kind of Flora,” Reggie said. “Well, Mr. Ford, Miss Bolton has been murdered.” “My God!” said Mr. Ford, and became livid. “And Miss Weston has been charged with the murder.” “Oh, my God!” Mr. Ford said again. “Oh, damn!” and put his hand to his head. “Here, let me go to her.” “I don’t mind,” said Reggie, and Mr. Ford plunged into the house. Reggie remained on the steps waiting for fresh arrivals. The goggled chauffeur moved his car on out of the way, descended, and behind a laurustinus lit a cigarette. Reggie, who never smoked them, sniffed disapproval and began to fill a pipe. A taxi-cab drove up, and out of it bounced a plump little man whose coat looked as if he wore stays. “I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said. “And I’m Donald Gordon, doctor,” said the little man, who was emphatically a Jew. “Moss and Gordon.” It was the name of Miss Bolton’s solicitors. “Many thanks for letting us know. Poor, dear Birdie. She was a peach. Let’s have all the facts, please.” He had an engaging lisp. “There’s a detective inspector inside. Like a bull in a china-shop.” “Had some,” said Mr. Donald Gordon. “Come on, doctor. Hand it out.” “Well, let’s see the flowers,” Reggie said, and walked him into the garden and began to tell him all that he knew.