“Poor old pater!” Reggie grinned, as he put his tools together. The pater would never forgive himself for being out of this. He loved a lord, did the pater, and since he had been called in to remove a fish bone from the archducal throat he could not keep the Archduke out of his conversation. The royal geniality of the Archduke, the royal disdain of the Archduchess--Dr. Fortune had been much gratified thereby, and Reggie was prepared to loathe their Royal Highnesses. Thank Heaven, the pater was safe on his holiday! If his head swelled so over an archducal fish bone, he would have burst over an archduke knocked down. Reggie was practical, if without sympathy; he made haste in his neat way, and the sedate chauffeur of Dr. Fortune was horrified by instructions to let the car rip. The streets of Westhampton are not adapted to this. The district has tried hard to keep itself rural still, and its original narrow winding lanes remain ill-lighted and overhung by trees. Boldrewood stands high, and its grounds border upon Westhampton Heath, across which there is one lamp per furlong. Just as Reggie’s car swung round to the heath it was stopped with a jerk. “What’s the trouble, Gorton?” Reggie said to the chauffeur. Gorton was leaning sideways and peering into the gloom of the gutter. A gleam from the sidelight winked at a body which lay still. “Give me a turn,” Gorton muttered. His face showed white. Reggie jumped out, but Gorton was quicker. “Lumme, it’s the Archduke!” he said, and his voice went up high. “Don’t be futile, Gorton.” Reggie bent over the body. “Get the lamps on him.” Gorton backed the car and the body came into the light. Its face was crushed. Gorton gasped and swallowed. “But it’s not him neither,” he muttered. After a minute Reggie stood up. “He was a fine chap about an hour ago,” he said gently. “All over, sir?” Reggie nodded. “Some hog done him in?” “As you say, Gorton. Running-down case. Big car. Took him in the back. Went over his head. But I don’t see how he got into the gutter.” He walked round the body, moved it a little, and picked up two matches--unusual matches in England--very thin vestas with dark blue heads. “Why did you think he was the Archduke, Gorton?” “Such a big chap, sir. Not many his measure. And there’s something about the make of the poor chap that’s very like. But thank God’s it’s not the Archduke, anyway.” “Why?” said Reggie, who was without reverence for Archdukes. “Well, let’s take him along.” They brought the dead man to the lodge at the main gates of Boldrewood, and there left him with a message to be telephoned to the police.