“Very singular. Windows and doors all right, eh?” “No traces so far as I have discovered. Fairlie—that’s the butler—assures me he locked up as usual last night; and the maids say everything was all right this morning.” “That looks bad. Who does the household consist of?” “Sir Roger and her ladyship—dreadfully upset she was at the news, so I heard, though he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a kind husband, but I daresay she thought more of him than we did and it would be a shock to an old lady at the best of times; she was always so particular, too, to have things just so. Then there’s the daughter, Miss Celia, great friends she and I used to be when she was little—she’s all right. Then there’s Miss Temple, Miss Celia’s friend, but she isn’t really an extra; she’s always staying here: like sisters those two are, and I’ve known her ever since she was so high,” putting his hand on a level with his waist. “Mr. Castle, again, has been secretary here for a great many years; very clever he is, and very easy to get on with too, I must say. He’s high-strung and finding the corpse upset him a bit, but he’s all right.” Birts spoke grudgingly; he regarded Castle as the man who had got him into trouble. “Then there’s Fairlie, James Fairlie, and he again has been here, well, as long as I can remember and was with her ladyship’s family, so I believe, before she married, and is as decent an old fellow as you’d see anywhere. Not much to go upon yet, sir, is there?” “Too early to give an opinion,” replied Humblethorne, cautiously. “I’m not sure whether it helps or hinders most to know them all as you do. It certainly saves a lot of questioning, but then it prejudices a man also.” “Perhaps it does, sir; but then I know it isn’t anything but waste of time to go suspecting some people—Miss Celia, for example. Why, that girl, sir, just couldn’t hurt a soul; I don’t believe she could if she was to die for it. She’s been delicate, as you might call it, for a long time, for one thing.” “And yet,” remarked Humblethorne gravely, “if you recall the Featherstone mystery, there was a girl just as you describe, gentle and popular, a member of societies for doing charitable things and all that—and she did have to die for it. One thing is certain and that is that you can’t ever be sure about human nature; at least, that’s my experience. Many a criminal has concealed a cold-blooded heart under a guise of benevolence, and it doesn’t do in our profession to forget it, Birts. Suspect everybody at first, and don’t allow your sympathies to put any possibility out of your calculations. Not, of course,” he observed, seeing polite incredulity in the sergeant’s face, “that I have at present the least doubt of Miss Penterton’s innocence; all I mean is, I shan’t refuse facts if later they should point to her—that’s all. And now who else lives here?”