The Superintendent was a true prophet. The sensational inquest upon Stephenson Charlecote ended in an unsatisfactory verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. It was obvious that public opinion, and the coroner, as the voice thereof, directed suspicion against Geoffrey. He made a bad witness. He was agitated, nervous, and under the coroner’s hostile examination lost his temper. When he was asked if he knew that his father had on the morning of the murder made a will leaving everything to him, he displayed a violent agitation, swore (not merely as a witness but with profane oaths) that he knew nothing about it, insulted the coroner, and roared out a declaration that he would not touch the money, which disgusted everybody as a bit of false melodrama. If distrust and dislike were grounds for hanging a man, the jury would have made an end of Geoffrey, but the evidence, as Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog. And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever, called on Geoffrey. It was a very humble house in a Chelsea cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took in Reggie’s name left him on the doorstep, from which he had the glimpse of a narrow bare hall and uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time, and heard confused noises. When at last he was shown into the studio he met signs of storm. Geoffrey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tempers, his wife pale and tired. “Well, what is it now?” Geoffrey growled. His wife smiled. “Mr. Fortune? That is so kind. If you would please sit down. Some tea, yes?” And Reggie was saying to himself. “Oh, my aunt! She isn’t a woman, she’s a child.” For Lucia Charlecote was so frail, of such a simplicity, that she looked rather like an angel in one of the primitive Italian pictures than a woman. “Shut up, Lucia,” Geoffrey growled. “What do you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your detective work?” “You’re rather difficult, aren’t you?” Reggie said mildly. “You know, you told me you wanted to have the truth brought out, justice for your father, all that sort of thing. Well, I’m still on it.” “Much good you’ve done, haven’t you?” “I don’t mind confessin’ we’ve missed something.” “Missed! Yes, you haven’t quite hanged me, thanks. You’ve only made everybody think I murdered my father. And so that don’t satisfy you! Thanks very much!” “Well, are you satisfied?” said Reggie. “You know, you’re not fair. I’m makin’ every allowance. But you’re not fair. If you want the thing cleared up, you’ve got to give us something more. And that’s why I’m here. Now, is there anything new?” “Oh, go to the devil!” “Geoffrey!” Lucia, standing behind him, touched his shoulder. “Mr. Fortune is very kind. He desires to help us,” and she smiled and nodded at Reggie. “Oh, hold your tongue, baby. Mr. Fortune’s a damned tricky policeman, and he can take his tricks to another market.”