Humblethorne’s eyes had travelled slowly over Philip, apparently seeing little and yet recording in his mind each detail, and they now rested upon his shoes. “I am sure you have had a trying time, Mr. Castle,” he said. “I understand you are the dead man’s private secretary.” “Yes.” “And have been with him for some time?” “Nearly eleven years.” “Now, Mr. Castle, is there any one as far as you know to whom his death at the present moment would be of advantage?” “That’s not a very easy question to answer,” replied Castle with some hesitation. “Sir Roger had few friends and he had made, in one way and another, a great many enemies in the course of his life—but none, as far as I know, who would be the least likely to resort to violence. The answer must certainly be, no.” “Did he go in fear of any one, for example?” “Not in the least; he was afraid of nothing and nobody.” “In fact you had no apprehensions for him of any sort?” “None; I thought he would live to be a hundred.” “That stick over there, that belonged to him, I understand?” “Yes; he’d been walking with it the last day or two.” “In the house, d’you mean?” “Yes, he had had twinges of gout; he had it all last evening.” “I was coming to that; perhaps you will be good enough to tell me in your own words exactly what happened last night.” “I came along the passage to go to bed——” “One minute,” interposed Humblethorne quickly; “that’s the end; I should like to know all that happened previous to that. Did you notice anything unusual in Sir Roger’s manner, for instance, during the day?” “No, I can’t say I did. He was, well, brusque and touchy about trifles, but that was entirely usual, especially when he had gout. He told me a couple of days ago he intended to have a grand clear up yesterday, but there is no significance in that; it was an expression he often used, and only meant an extra hard day’s work for me. He came to his study as usual after breakfast and dictated a few business letters for me to write, and also told me to have ready for him by the evening a detailed _précis_ of a lot of new material he had had sent him at various times, all relating to a branch he had thoughts of opening in Liverpool. He was in his study all the morning. He was reading in the garden with his foot up, I believe, all the afternoon, at least that’s what he said at lunch he was going to do; I was busy with the _précis_, so I don’t know for certain. He signed his letters for the six o’clock post, and told me he had some more letters he would dictate after dinner so that they could go out at nine o’clock this morning. We all sat here while he smoked a cigar after dinner, and he and I went to his study, as near as I can remember, just after ten o’clock.” “He sounds very busy for a man of his age, partially retired,” remarked Humblethorne thoughtfully. “Was this an average day for him?”