Warriner started immediately upon a close and systematic examination of the apartment and its appurtenances. From his pocket he drew a geologist's hammer and a slender rod of steel, and for nearly an hour he occupied himself in probing the wainscoting and walls and in making test knocks. I had expected to see him give particular attention to the secret passage behind the fireplace, but he ignored it entirely. I expressed some surprise. "It's told me already all it had to tell," he answered, and did not vouchsafe any further elucidation of his pronouncement. Nor did I ask for it; I realized that a man should be allowed to work in his own way. Finally, Warriner asked me to sit down in the fixed revolving chair that stood before the great, flat-topped library desk. I did so with some inward reluctance, for this was the seat _par excellence_ of the master of "Hildebrand Hundred"; from this very coign of vantage Francis Graeme had toppled to his death. But as well now as ever, and accordingly I complied with the request. At Warriner's further suggestion I bent forward as though engaged in writing. Suddenly he appeared from behind the screen of stamped Spanish leather which stood between the table and the door leading to the great hall; instantly, I became aware of his presence; involuntarily I looked up. "Not so easy to surprise a man from this side, even if he were engaged in writing or study," mused Warriner as he walked over to the fireplace. "Now suppose I had entered from this secret postern or side door," he went on. "I should have no particular difficulty in stealing up behind you and striking a fatal blow." "Perhaps not," I assented. "The rug is deeply piled, and a man would have to walk pretty heavily to be heard." "A man--or a woman," amended Warriner. Of course I understood him, but it was none of my business to prejudice Eunice Trevor's case. The very fact that I instinctively disliked her imposed its obligations. Warriner motioned me to yield him the revolving chair, and I arose with alacrity. He sat down quite as though intent upon testing the smoothness of the swivelling and the depth and comfort of the upholstery. But presently he swung round and faced the fireplace and windows. Then he drew from his pocket a pair of French folding opera glasses and continued his observations for several minutes; finally, he glanced at me and beckoned. I went over to the big desk. "From where I sit," began Warriner, "I can see an odd-appearing break in the woods on 'Sugar Loaf.' Take the chair and I'll explain what I have in mind." I obeyed and Warriner leaned over my shoulder, pointing. "Look straight," he said, "through that small, square panel in the window on the left of the fireplace; it is called the pridella, I believe. Now take the glasses."